


Death in a White Tie

by ljs



Series: Investigations and Acquisitions [3]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of "Partners in Crime, " Wesley arrived at the Giles/Jenkins doorstep, waving a gun and asking about Roger Wyndam-Pryce. This story is what happens next. Mystery, spookiness, spies, romance, and domestic comedy ensue.</p><p>The story will contain brief references to Agatha Christie's <em>Partners in Crime</em> and Ngaio Marsh's <em>Death in a White Tie</em>. There also will be some minor cross-over with characters from the first two series of <em>Spooks</em> (aka <em>MI-5</em>).</p><p>(Written in 2004.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Giles considered the situation – which was hollow-eyed, unshaven, and very wet Wesley Wyndam-Pryce standing on their doorstep with a gun, blathering about what they might have done to his bloody uncommunicative father. Right.

Stepping as unobtrusively as he could in front of Anya, he said, "Wesley, why don’t you put that down, and then we’ll have a chat about whatever’s troubling you."

His darling of course couldn’t be suppressed by a mere body-block. Putting her hand on his shoulder, she leaned around him to see. "Put what down?"

When Wes’s gaze went to her, Giles led with his elbow. A quick blow to the chin sent Wes staggering, enough so Giles could wrest the weapon out of his hand. "Oh. A gun," she said. After a pause: "A gun?"

Wes just stood there, struggling for balance, hand to his jaw. "Did you always fight like that?" he mumbled.

"Yes, he did. Rupert had a misspent youth and strangely complicated adulthood, which comes in very handy when guests brandish guns at him," she said. "What the hell do you think you’re doing anyway, mister? And honey, are you all right?"

Not really, Giles thought but did not say; the deepest of the scratches from their evening at Nalph’s felt as if it had opened again. He sodding well hoped he didn’t start bleeding on this dress-shirt, or he’d never hear the end of it. He said, "I’m fine. Wes, let me echo Anya’s question. What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

Wes put out a hand against the doorframe to steady himself; poor bastard looked like he was going to vomit up the contents of his stomach at any moment. Yet his voice was soft, implacable: "What did you do to my father?"

Giles took out the ammunition clip and pocketed it. "We left him several phone messages in an attempt to return his call. I had no idea that such a thing necessitated a visit with firearms." Handing the unloaded gun back, he said, "Now come in and explain to us what’s wrong."

"Rupert, you’re inviting a gun-wielding crazy person into our house?" Anya said. Piercingly.

After brushing a kiss on her mouth, he whispered, "Gun’s empty. And he’s not a vampire, Anya. Just an ex-Watcher under a little stress."

"Honey, you really think that’s _better_?" When he frowned at her, she shrugged and turned to check on the candles she’d lit. They still flickered bravely, even in the rainswept breeze coming through the still open door.

"I’ve asked you –" Wes began, only to shut up when Giles grabbed him by the collar, dragged him inside, and closed the door behind him.

Anya said, "Watch the drips on the floor, mister," even as she stripped Wes of his jacket and hung it on the coat rack. "By the way, do I even know you?"

"You’ve met, as I recall," Giles said. "This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, darling; he was Buffy’s official Watcher when, er, during the last year the Scoobies were in high school. Roger Wyndam-Pryce – at the Traditionalists Club?– is his father, about whom there is apparently some mystery."

"Oh. Huh." The tone was not encouraging, but she mustered a smile, if not as bright as her normal efforts. "I’m Anya Jenkins, Rupert’s partner."

"I knew that. Father’s notes..." Wesley swayed on his feet.

"Come on," Giles and Anya said in unison, catching his arms.

It only took a moment to get Wesley into the lounge. The lamplight from the bay window table washed over him as he fell onto the couch, and for a second he screwed up his eyes against the shock of brightness. He looked oddly young despite stubble and the marks of desperation and illness; Giles was reminded of the stuffy, rule-quoting young arse who’d shown up in Sunnydale to take his job.

However, that prat never would have pushed himself to sitting and said quietly, "Thank you both. But are you telling me that you don’t know what’s happened?"

"We can hardly put it more plainly," Anya said. "What? What what what?" She pulled Giles down to sit with her in the overstuffed armchair. Not really made for two, of course, but she was hanging onto his tie with a death grip, and he didn’t want to upset her or find himself strangled.

Wesley leaned forward, focussing on them. Whatever he saw eased the tension in his shoulders, allowed him to say, "Two nights ago my father was found unconscious. He’s in a coma, and the doctors say that he’s fading. He likely won’t..." He didn’t need to finish.

"Found unconscious?" Giles said.

"Yes, at his desk at home. My mother... Anyway, it’s unclear what happened, whether it was heart attack or stroke. Preliminary tests aren’t conclusive." Wes rested his hands on the coffee table, staring at them as if they weren’t his. "But perhaps it wasn’t a natural attack at all. You see, your business card was in front of him. And your number was the last he dialled, according to the phone’s memory."

"Oh sure, blame the murderous business card," Anya began, then paused. Her hold on Giles tightened. In a lowered voice she said to him, "You know, honey, in those mysteries I’ve been reading, that sort of thing often throws suspicion –"

"Yes, darling. He’s obviously read the same books." After he pressed her hand, he said, "Wesley, I’m sorry, this is terrible news for you. I assume that you just flew in from Los Angeles?"

"Yes, this morning. I haven’t – I just saw the study where he’d collapsed, and found the card, and– oh, God." He slumped forward, his fingers going to his temples. "I have a terrible headache."

"When did you last eat?" Anya said pragmatically.

"Eat?" He didn’t look up. "I don’t know... yesterday, maybe. I couldn’t touch anything on the plane. But I’ve had the headache for a while, ever since – I’m sorry, that has no relevance, does it?"

Without letting go of Giles, she stood up. "Before we can counsel you on this problem – as you might have gathered from the card, we’re investigators now – food is called for. I’ll heat up some soup."

"I’ll make a pot of tea," Giles said. "Just sit there and rest, Wesley. And don’t point the gun at anything."

The odd thing was that the poor bastard obeyed them. He must be exhausted as well as sick.

As soon as they made it into the kitchen, Anya erupted, although more quietly than normal. "Let me just repeat: what on earth is wrong with _you_ , Rupert? Is the troubled, albeit handsome, maniac some kind of long-lost friend, so that you just let him walk into our home with a gun, no matter how unloaded it is currently?" She flung open the fridge door and looked inside. "And is it appropriate to offer an armed guest leftover soup?"

"I think the chicken-and-mushroom thing is perfectly fine, yes. And ‘friend’ might be stretching it a bit far." He put the kettle on. "But Wesley’s a good man – or he was; I’ve barely spoken to him since he went to Los Angeles to work with Angel. You know, this Roger business is bloody disturbing. As is the gun, of course."

"One of Angel’s crew. Huh." She slammed the soup container into the microwave and punched at buttons. "We’re thinking that Roger Wyndam-Pryce is going to die, then. And it might not be just because he was aged?"

"I fear so." The kettle was going; he poured the water into the pot, scrutinized the leaves as they swirled into dark. "Are you going to want a cup too, darling?"

"I’m going to want _dinner_ soon – I’m starving. But if we deal with suspicious almost-deaths first, it does require tea." She beamed at him, even as the microwave went off. "Hey, look how I’ve adjusted! I’m practically an Englishwoman already."

"You’re amazing," he said, with a kiss. Then, against her mouth: "I just – er, ‘handsome’? You think Wesley’s handsome?"

"What?"

"You said– "

"Oh. Oh, good God, honey, you’re an idiot." Her tongue slipped inside – carefully, so as not to disturb his healing lip – to play for a second, before she pulled away. "But I love you nevertheless. I’ll take this; you come in when the tea’s done."

As she trotted off with the soup, he stared at the brewing tea. Dark brown, billowing up from the depths... a demon’s voice, saying, "London is changing in ways both surface and deep. Take heed as you go"...a dead man’s voice on their answerphone. Dark brown, billowing up.

Tea was ready. As he reached for the cups, he felt another sharp pull, an aching separation. He glanced at his stomach. Oh for fuck’s sake, he was bleeding – a thin broken line, blue cotton darkening from below.

He’d blotted the evidence away, best he could, when he went back into the lounge with the tea. Anya had restrained herself from actually hand-feeding Wesley, but she had pulled the chair near and was monitoring his slow movements of spoon from bowl to mouth. He had managed to get most of it down, at least.

"Tea as well, Wes. Maybe this will help," Giles said, handing him the drink.

"Thank you, Giles." He seemed more himself; colour was coming back in his face. As he accepted the mug, he hesitated. "I don’t know what to say. The gun – it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"No harm done." Giles handed Anya her tea, then took a sip of his own. "Do you want to hear the message your father left us two days ago? We haven’t erased it."

Wesley’s hand shook on the cup, but he said calmly enough, "Yes, please."

Giles went to the answerphone. Arranging himself so he could see Wesley’s reaction, he put on the tape. Roger’s voice, as vivid as if he were scowling down the room with them, barked out the greeting, the repeated injunction to call because it was "important." Then the machine noted date and time of call.

Wesley’s face had gone flat, without expression. But he took another drink of tea before saying, "Ah. Mother found him fifteen minutes later." With eyes like deep glacial ice, he shot looks at both Giles and Anya. "And where were you at that time?"

"Negotiating with a demon-merchant for information, thanks," Anya said. "In other words, we have alibis, if you’re willing to take the word of a demon."

Giles could see pain transforming the set lines of Wesley’s face; he wasn’t sure if it was only jetlag and attendant distress, either. As he recalled, there always had been talk in the Council about the strained relationship between Wyndam-Pryce senior and junior. Might be tricky to deal with a son who wasn’t just grieving.

Wes put down his cup. Despite the hand back at his temple, he tried to smile. "Sorry. Really, the phone call tells me all I needed to know. He was asking you for help, it seemed, not... the other. Sorry again."

Anya’s hand forestalled any attempt to rise. "Hey now. Did you not hear me earlier? We’re investigators. If this isn’t just an attack of old age, and the call suggests that you’re right about that, we might be able to help you."

"Anya, Wes has worked with Angel at their agency," Giles said. "He shouldn’t need our assistance."

Wes said slowly, "Well. The agency isn’t really there any more. And my new employment at Wolfram and Hart–"

"What?" Giles and Anya said in unison. She continued, "You work for Hell’s law firm?"

"Just the L.A. branch." There was a drift of driest laughter in his voice, but Giles didn’t think he was amused. "Angel took it over, in order to effect change from within. I think, I can’t...." He covered his eyes with his hand. "Sorry, my head. Anyway, I think I could use a little help on this."

Anya looked at Giles, then nodded in a meaningful way. In her client voice: "We’d be happy to help you! And because you’re a former Watcher and a past associate of Rupert’s, we’ll even reduce our already reasonable rates."

"Now really, we could, er, make an exception and do this pro bono," Giles said, ignoring her frown.

Wesley laughed, this time in bitter earnest, and smiled at them both. "Money is the least of my troubles. I’d be happy to employ you, but this could be nothing. I mean – "

"You mean your father’s old, and his otherwise suspicious coma and imminent decline doesn’t have to be foul play," Anya said. "But we need to look, don’t we? Won’t that make you feel better?"

Before Giles could comment, the phone rang. Muttering an apology, he picked up the receiver and took it the few steps into the entry. "Hello."

"Giles! Giles, it’s me, Dawn. Um, I couldn’t understand your last e-mail? And since you gave Buffy the calling card, I just thought –"

"Dawn, it’s fine." He looked back, saw that Anya had already started to grill Wes, and then went further into the hall. "And I’m sorry, I should have given you a card as well. Anyway, my question was directed to you specifically. If, er, I were to fax you a sigil-and-word combination tomorrow, would you be able to – not if it’s at all troublesome, mind – would you look it up on the Watcher database of scanned texts? I think something similar’s in Fletcher, but I’m not sure."

"Of _course_ I could!" Dawn said brightly. "But why can’t you ask Robson or one of the other Watchers?"

"Well, er, it’s a bit tricky." He lowered his voice. "For one thing, the sigil isn’t clear at all – Anya wasn’t able to draw it very well, and you know that’s not one of my skills. And, um, this would be an unauthorised search. I don’t really want the Council to know, not yet."

Her squeak of pleasure filled the receiver. "Secrets! Oh, of _course_!" After a happy pause, she added, "But are you sure you want to ask me? Why not Willow, who’s always been the go-to research girl?"

"Um. Well, I’ve been concerned about her, what with the Kennedy mess, and I’ve already asked–"

"Oh, yeah. Oh and it’s worse, Giles. Since the breakup Willow’s worn the same pair of pajamas all day for two whole days, and there’s been way too much baking, and... say, why don’t you learn how to do AIM and instant-message her? That might cheer her up."

"‘Instant-message’? You want me to learn some messaging-thing?"

Apparently he had said that too loudly, because before he knew it, Anya was there, frowning. "Did Dawn just ask you to learn a new computer ability?"

"Yes. I– er, Dawn, talk to you later, Anya will finish," he said hurriedly, as she yanked the phone from his hand.

She snapped into the receiver, "Are you _insane_ , Dawn? We’ve spoken about this. You do not propose any new technological skill to him until you’ve cleared it with me first, because I don’t want to nurse him through the heart attack after he tries to master it!" Fluttering her hand at him in a ‘get the hell out’ motion, she continued, "Now. Did Rupert mention –"

Giles ducked back into the living room. Wes looked much better now, sitting up straight and smirking like the arrant tosser he was. "Scooby trouble still, Giles?"

"No, not at all." His gaze went to the item in pride of place on the coffee table. "Is that a digital camera?"

Wes looked down, the smirk dissolving back into pain. "Ah. Yes, I took a picture of my father’s desk, the items that were left. I don’t know why. The crime scene, I suppose, although we haven’t called the police, and now I suspect it’s too late. But there it is."

"Yes, it probably is too late. But the photo was good thinking." He picked up the camera and adjusted his glasses for a better look at the tiny display. Couldn’t see much, really – the business card, some scrawls on a couple of half-covered sheets of paper, a reflection off something not clearly in frame. "Wesley, would it be too much to ask if Anya and I could examine your father’s desk? With you there to supervise, of course, in case you’re still concerned."

Wes’s smile looked more like a wince. "Your partner’s already made the suggestion. And I’d appreciate it." He cleared his throat. "Interesting, though. You’re not a Watcher any more, you have a partner, you’re apparently some sort of detective–? Not like the Rupert Giles I knew."

"Lots of changes all around," Giles said. Fishing in his jacket pocket, he pulled out the ammunition clip. It was heavy and cold in his hand. After an experimental toss or two, he handed it back to Wes. "Perhaps you and I’ll be able to work together more effectively now. After all the, er, changes for both of us."

"I’d like that very much," Wes said.

Giles took another sip of his tea. _Dark brown, billowing up from the depths_ , he thought again, although he didn’t know why.

***

The rain was coming down hard. The windshield wipers were having to work to shift the vats of water coming from the heavens, and Anya could tell that Rupert was having a little trouble with the lights and the traffic and the slick streets.

Still – "Honey, do you want the last bite?"

"Yes, darling, thank you." Keeping his gaze on the road, he leaned over so she could feed him the last bit of roast-beef-and-cheese. They had thrown together a couple of sandwiches to eat on their way to Kensington, where the Wyndam-Pryce house was located. Investigation was a higher priority than a proper dinner, she had decided, but she couldn’t let them starve.

After she thumbed a spot of mustard from the corner of his mouth and licked it off her finger, she said, "So Wesley’s father is dying."

"It seems so." He spared her a glance full of love and concern. "Are you all right?"

"Yep. You bet." But she crossed her arms against a sudden shiver.

Death bothered her, she had to admit, and what with gun-waving visitors and coma-ridden clients, it seemed awfully close at the moment. From her first change from demon until now, she’d never gotten used to the idea; it didn’t make sense to her. But now she tried to compensate, to understand and control it – reading the obituary pages in the _Telegraph_ that laid out people’s existences in such a tidy way; the mysteries which she found soothing, especially the manner in which the characters’ lives worked out in a correctly balanced and judicial fashion (except for the murdered victims, of course). Death was supposed to be just, she thought, like a snip of a thread in exactly the right place, but it almost never was.

Almost to herself, she said, "I don’t like it."

"What?"

"People dying. It troubles me." When his hand came to cover hers, she linked fingers with him, pressing into his warmth. "Does that make me hypocritical, after all the terrible things I’ve done? Or odd?"

So softly that she could barely hear him over the engine and the thwap-thwap of the wipers, he said, "It makes you human, dearest."

She looked at him and smiled. He always knew the right thing to say – not that he always said it, of course, what with his temper and his occasional male stupidity. But regardless of the rain and his need to concentrate, she unhooked her seat belt so she could scoot over and put her head on his shoulder. They stayed like that, silent, until he parked the car behind Wesley’s hired one, outside the Wyndam-Pryce family home.

The house smelled like death, she thought, as Wesley opened the door and let them in. Or maybe it was as if time and hearts had stopped there long ago. Although obviously there was a supply of oxygen, since they all were able to breathe, it seemed airless. Dark despite lights everywhere, damp despite a fire burning in the big room off the front hall (even in July), oppressive despite the baskets of flowers visible on the tables everywhere. Also, she felt it could do with an updated paint job, maybe a light scumble glaze on the walls.

Looking around like he’d never seen his home before, Wes ran his hand through his hair. Despite his best efforts he was shaking again; they might have needed to bring more soup. "I’d take you both to meet Mother, but – well, let me see if she’s in her room or at hospital with Father. Just wait here, please."

As Wes went up the stairs, Rupert glanced around the hall and adjacent rooms. "Christ, this place hasn’t changed in fifteen years," he said. "And it could do with some changes."

"You’ve been here before?"

"Only once – a general Watchers party, back when Wyndam-Pryce thought he could take the Council away from Quentin Travers." He laughed a little. "I stood in a corner, that corner as it happens, drank two glasses of very good Scotch very quickly, and then got the bloody hell out of here. Had a previously arranged appointment with a demon informant, of course, but I would have gone anyway. I was never any good at those sort of things, er, mingling and politicking and what not."

She put her arm around his waist. "So that’s why you’re not a member of the Traditionalists Club?"

"Oh for fuck’s sake, Anya, do I seem like I’d fit in at a place like that?"

She surveyed him closely. He still had on one of his beautiful office suits, albeit a little rumpled now, with his tie hanging askew for some reason; he still looked mostly like the man she used to think was the stuffiest, most irritating Englishman ever put on this earth, and she judged by centuries of vengeance visits. But when he smiled at her, she curled her hand around the back of his neck and said with absolute conviction, "No. No, honey, you wouldn’t fit there _at all_."

His smile deepened to a grin, and he moved closer to her with definite intent. However, before the Wyndam-Pryce entryway could see what probably would be the first sexually charged groping in its entire dark, damp and oppressive history, Wesley came back down the stairs. He trod softly, as if he didn’t want to wake anyone. Didn’t want to wake the dead, Anya thought with a start. "I’m sorry. Mother doesn’t feel very well, she’s – never mind. She’s glad that you’re taking a look. So let’s investigate, shall we?"

He led the way down the hall past two more enormous rooms –the house was deeper than it was wide – and then to a oak-barred door. "Father’s study," he said, throwing open the door.

It was even more airless here than the rest of the house. A lit lamp in the corner showed the dimness within: two dark, panelled walls hung with medals, weapons, and several centuries’ worth of portraits; one wall lined with bookshelves; the last wall hung with far too heavy drapery. In the centre of the room stood a huge, untidy desk. Anya noted with some discomfort that its desk chair was turned on its side, as if the weight of an unconscious body had toppled it.

Rupert put his hand on the light-switch by the door. "May I turn this on, Wesley?"

Wes nodded. When the overhead fixture flashed yellow, though, he shaded his eyes. "Sorry. The light – as I said, I’ve a terrible headache."

"When did it start?" she asked. She had a couple of remedies at home, she should have thought of that earlier –

He looked at her, trying to smile; she’d bet he would have a lovely one if one ever made it all the way to life. "I can’t really remember, Anya. More like a series of them than just one, actually. I started getting them shortly after I began work at Wolfram and Hart." A grimace of pain, then he said, "Ah, but we should look at the desk."

Rupert was already there, standing between desk and chair. Taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, he said, "Shutting the barn door, I’m afraid. But I’ll abide by the time-honoured detective practice." Then, using the folded cloth, he turned on the desk lamp. Another flash of light – weird that the room still seemed dark. It still needed air.

She went closer. Yep, there in the centre of the blotter was the Giles and Jenkins card; it really did look nicely professional. One corner was turned down, though, stained a dark green. Beside it lay a few sheets of paper, the top one stamped with something uncomfortably familiar. "Rupert, do you see–?"

"Yes, indeed." He took out a little notebook, then hesitated. "Wesley, would you mind reproducing that sigil-and-word combination for me? I’ve been told that I’m crap at drawing."

"Honey, I didn’t say _crap_ , precisely –"

"It was your exact word, Anya." But he smiled at her as he handed the pad and pencil to Wesley. Bending over the desk again and starting to arrange the materials into neat piles, he said, "Anyway, Wes, we’ve been working on another problem, perhaps your father was as well – oh. That’s strange."

"What?" Anya and Wes said at the same time.

The handkerchief was once again deployed, and he picked up a small jar filled with something crushed and green, which had been almost hidden behind a stack of envelopes. After examining it in the light, and sniffing its contents, he said, "That’s Grittnak’s sleep potion. Anya, isn’t that his mark on the glass?"

"A poison?" Wes asked, his hand pausing above the sketch he was making.

"No, a case of intellectual-property theft!" she said. "It’s really Rupert’s laceprig formula, but Grittnak, that son of a Nakgut, stole it and is trying to sell it on without proper attribution or remuneration!"

"A slight case of contested ownership, Wes, don’t worry. It’s almost impossible to take too much of this, but still, your father must have been combatting sleeplessness. Any ideas?"

"You’re assuming that I’ve spoken to my father in the past six months," Wes said shortly. "But I’ll ask Mother." With a scrape of pencil against paper, he finished his picture, then looked at it for a moment. "That word looks familiar. Isn’t it Old English for ‘loss’?"

Rupert adjusted his glasses, looked at it and then over at the paper. "You’re quite right. But Anya, that’s not what Yeangelt’s advert said, is –"

"Yeangelt? You’ve seen this sign before?" Wes stood a little straighter. The movement of his hand looked awfully close to a grab for his gun.

Rupert thought so, too, because he sent him one of his most quelling frowns. "Calm the bloody hell down, Wesley. Anya and I are working on a case – well, we don’t know what it is exactly, but the name’s important. Perhaps your father wasn’t as, er, retired as we all thought." After another squint, he said, "The flyer had the word for ‘call,’ not ‘loss.’ Odd substitution. The sigil looks the same, however."

"We’ll ask Dawn to look up both," she said. "And, Wesley, do you mind if I open a window? It’s like this place is one of the dimensions without oxygen. It’s making me very uncomfortable."

"I don’t know that anyone’s ever opened a window in here, Anya. The ghosts of my ancestors might fly out of the walls in horror," he said in what she assumed was a joking tone, before he looked down at his hands. "Oh. That’s not so amusing at the moment, is it?"

"It’s all right, Wes," Rupert said. "Still, darling, a breath of fresh air would do us all good, thank you." He’d almost cleared the desk and put it in order, she noticed. But as she went toward the wall of drapes, he said, "Hang on. What’s this? Never heard of it."

"What, honey?" she said, finding the cord to draw the curtains and pulling. And – "Oh my God."

Each of the four oversized French doors behind the curtain, portals of black on the night, were cracked down the middle. Each point of the broken glass was edged in something dark green, glimmers of wet with moisture not given by the rain.

She didn’t think the green was a harmless sleeping potion either.

"Don’t touch it," Wes and Rupert said in unison – which was ridiculous, she had been reading the books and knew the proper procedure – and hurried over to examine. With a mutter about lack of light, Rupert went over to the corner floor lamp and then carried it closer so they could see the pattern of cracks.

Each one looked like the centre stroke of the sigil.

"Was this here before, Wesley?" Rupert asked.

Anya didn’t think Wes looked at all like a man who’d seen the damage before. He said, "I have no idea; I didn’t check, which was stupid. I don’t know if Mother did, but she certainly didn’t say anything." He extended a hand, then said, "May I use your handkerchief, Giles?" After a silent exchange, he dabbed at the green. "It’s still wet. However, that could be the rain. We don’t have any way to know if this is fresh or not." He stared at the handkerchief, then crushed it in his hand. "Too late, just as we thought."

"I’m sorry, Wes. So sorry." Rupert took the handkerchief away from him, and sniffed at the stain. "That’s not the laceprig potion."

"I guessed as much," Anya said. "And honey, what did you find just before I dramatically revealed the broken windows?"

"Oh, right. Another note in Wyndam-Pryce’s – sorry – Wesley’s father’s handwriting. It said ‘The Terminal.’ Underlined several times. Looks like another name we can pursue." He crossed to her, then slipped his arm around her shoulders. As she snuggled into his embrace, he said, "Well, then. Er, we do have several leads to work on, but it’s getting late and I don’t know how much more we can do here. Tomorrow morning suit you, Wesley? Would you like to meet us at our office in Bloomsbury, or shall we–?"

But Wes wasn’t listening. He stared at the windows, one hand pressed almost absently to his temple. The reflection off the black made him look even paler than before, new lines of pain cut around his mouth and eyes.

He looked a little broken too, Anya thought. And the rain was really coming down now. A person could drown in that much rain.

***

 _"So he should," said Tuppence. "Haven’t Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives been brilliantly successful? Oh, Tommy, I do think we are extraordinarily clever. It quite frightens me sometimes."_

Giles scanned the passage again, snorted, then laid the open book on his chest and closed his eyes. He was bloody sick of this Golden Age detective banter, but Anya insisted that he read the stupid thing.

As he sank deeper into the pillows and edged away from her fluttering feet – she must be at an exciting part in her own book, she always kicked at plot-points – he thought morosely about how nice it was that the fictional Tommy and Tuppence could feel clever. He, on the other hand, felt as if he were choking in clues that led nowhere.

They’d have to check with Nalph tomorrow about the ‘Terminal’, he thought, idly rubbing just above one of his healing stomach wounds. Damn things itched like fury.

And he thought of poor Wesley. The more time they all had spent together, the more worried about him Giles had become. Mysterious headaches and following Angel into Wolfram and Hart, for fuck’s sake, that new and alarming propensity to reach for a gun, the strange relationship with his sodding father in that horrible house – and what had old Wyndam-Pryce been doing with that sigil-and-word combination, anyway?

He opened one eye to look at the bedside table. Yes, the candles were still burning. Anya had a strict rule about no work discussion once the candles were lit, and he didn’t feel like challenging it at the moment. Also, the rain was drumming on the windows above their heads, in a rhythm that made him think of soft breaths and sleep. Yes. Sleep. What an excellent idea.

He took off his glasses and set them on the table, on top of his book. Then he yawned. God he was tired.

Before he could settle back in, however, came a sweetly chimed, "Honey, don’t go to sleep yet."

"I’m not." Yet.

She turned over, stowing her open book – _Death in a White Tie_ , charming – on his shoulder, then peering at his stomach. "Okay, you need something for that one scratch, it looks a little angry. The other ones are nicely scabbed, but since you were idiot enough to wrestle the gun away from Wesley, opening the injury again and ruining yet another shirt...."

"Right. Er, next time I’ll just let the armed person shoot us, will that make you happy?"

"Stop trying to annoy me, Rupert." She hit him rather hard on his free shoulder, then clambered over him and out of the bed. "Now, stay there and be quiet while I get your fresh bandage."

"Darling, remember that you’re not allowed to hit me. And don’t tell me what to do." Of course he had planned on staying put anyway. After stashing her book with his on the table, he turned over onto his side, closed his eyes. Images and sound flickered like the candles: rain on the windows, cracked windows with green-smeared edges, dark brown billowing up –

He jolted back into full wakefulness, repressing a groan at the new ache. There were connections to be made here, but he couldn’t seem to pull the threads together. Not enough information yet. Or maybe he just wasn’t clever enough.

Bringing him back to the moment, Anya said, "Hey now, honey. Pay attention, I’m back." She climbed back into bed, carrying her salve, a fresh towel, and another bandage. He arranged himself so that she could smooth a little more medicine on, affix the bandage, dab off the excess – and so that, once done, she could throw everything onto the floor on her side and curl up cautiously against him. One leg slipped over his thighs; one small, competent hand rested on his chest. He brought his fingers up to twine with hers.

They lay there for a minute, listening to the rain, breathing the trace of smoke from the candles. Then she said, "You know, my novel is really bothering me. The last chapter I read, I mean."

"Then don’t read it any more."

"You’re so funny. No, it’s the romantic interest for the detective; she’s a strange and disturbing person. See, the detective – have you read it, honey?"

"Possibly. It would have been a long time ago, I don’t remember it."

She settled in closer. "Okay. The detective, Inspector Alleyn, is making everything very tidy, figuring out who killed a nice and helpful old man. Whom everyone liked, which seems to be different from our own new case...." After a pause for him to brush a light kiss on her hair, she continued, "But we won’t talk about that because the candles are lit and it’s depressing. Anyway, the woman Troy is scared of loving Alleyn although she so does, because he deals in justice – capital punishment, actually. So she thinks of him as being connected to death and thinks she can’t love him."

"What bothers you specifically about this?" Although he thought he knew.

"I’m not sure. Everything. I’m just feeling a little... I don’t know." She moved her thigh up, so that she rubbed against his cock. As he caught his breath, as he began to harden underneath her touch, she smothered a laugh against his shoulder. It tickled, and it pleased him so much. She said, "Also, honey, the woman is scared of sex. I mean, how stupid is that?"

"Rather stupid, I’d say." His free hand stole underneath her nightshirt. Her long line of back tempting him, he traced up from the cleft of her arse to her nape, silk puddling over his forearm as he did – the result of course being that she arched into him, her leg pressing down on him, her breath on his neck teasing him harder.

And he forgot his tiredness. Well, in the words of that old song, he could sleep when he was dead.

After a nip at her ear, he said, "You know, darling, you’ve been extremely bossy tonight. I don’t think I can let this, er, state of affairs continue."

"You’re going to withhold sex from me?" she yelped.

He stopped her hand before she could grab his length and squeeze. "Dear God, no. But you see, there you’re doing it again. You persist in thinking you’re in charge."

"Oh. Well, that’s wrong, I guess." She smiled up at him, undulating against him until his breath caught in his throat. But then her face fell. "Can I just ask about the continuing technical difficulty? New bandaging will make this tricky."

He slapped that perfect bottom hard enough that she squeaked. "Darling, I told you I’m in charge. You just be quiet and let me work."

"That’s not really one of my best skills, Rupert."

"If you don’t shut up I _shall_ withhold sex, and then where will you be?" As he got out of bed, he ignored her pitiful little whimper. She’d just have to learn, he thought. Now where was it–

Yes, that was what he was looking for: his tie, draped on the side-chair. Moving carefully, he brought both to her side of the bed. She was sitting up now, smiling at him, her nakedness glowing in the candlelight. She’d hung her nightshirt on one of the metal posters. Efficient; that was his darling. But he said sternly, "Hands, please."

She gave them to him, so he could wrap the silk around her wrists, loop the soft material into a bond that would hold. She began to breathe faster even as the knot tightened.

"Right. Now, if you’d slide yourself to the edge of the bed, hang your legs over it, then lie back with your hands above your head."

"I’m liking this already," she whispered. "Oops. I didn’t say anything, you didn’t hear it."

"Anya. Now."

Smiling, she did what she was told. The sheet rustled underneath her as she moved, a counterpoint to the rain on the windows, to the beat in his veins. She was washed in candle- and lamplight, creamy skin against the Egyptian cotton. God, he could drown in her, he thought.

He pushed her thighs apart so she was open to him, all creams and pinks and dark hair, all shivers and grace. Then he pulled his chair close, and sat down. Hooking his arms underneath her legs, he brought her closer still. And then he blew on her, a focussed stream of warm breath, until she flushed a deeper pink.

"Honey, am I allowed to moan?" she whispered.

"Oh, I’m counting on it," he said. Then he put his mouth on her.

As she in fact did begin to moan, he ignored his own aching need and let his tongue slip out to taste, to circle. His darling had been so worried about death all night – perhaps if he did his job cleverly enough, _la petite mort_ would cheer her up.

***

The hallway of the private hospital’s most exclusive ward was darkened for the night. As Wesley walked down toward his father’s room, he breathed in the scents of flowers, cleaning products, and death.

All the money in the world couldn’t wash that out of the air, he thought, nodding at a nurse as they passed each other.

He really should sleep. Before Giles and that sweetly odd partner of his had left, she had impressed upon him the need to take care of himself. "You can’t investigate dark mysteries when you’re not at your best!" she had said pragmatically. "Food, Wesley, and then sleep. Otherwise we won’t let you help us tomorrow."

She was right, of course. He knew he should rest. Yet the family house pressed in on him until he couldn’t breathe, until the headache he’d suffered since they’d all started working at Wolfram and Hart grew into a vise on his brain. There was a damn good reason that he hadn’t been back to Kensington for years.

So, like the fool he was, he sought out that damn good reason.

His father’s room was even darker than the hallway. The one shaded light in the corner and the electronic displays revealed the machines that kept him alive, even before the hisses and hums would have told one that his was an unnatural breath, an unnatural sleep.

The old man lay there in shadow, tied to this world by tubes and cords. Wesley found himself laughing under his breath, although without humour. Roger Wyndam-Pryce, Chief of Wetwork for the Council of Watchers, always had liked his technology: the latest weapons, the latest toys, the latest security measures.

Wes thought about the gun he’d left in his boyhood bedroom. He thought about cracks in an unguarded window, dripping with green.

Christ, his head hurt so much.

Near the bed was placed one extremely uncomfortable chair – for family, the nurse had told him earlier. Ironic, really. He sat down in the chair, stretching out his legs and settling his hands on his stomach. Then he looked at his father.

Odd that he couldn’t come up with a happy memory of his father to keep him company. Even odder that he couldn’t seem to remember much of anything these days. He’d always prided himself on his recall – it kept him at the head of his class, it kept him alive in the field, it kept him on Angel’s team even after...

After what, exactly? His memory seemed to be unravelling more with every breath, as if important threads were singed at the edges, ripping apart inch by inch. He was missing something.

Ah well. He let himself relax deeper into the chair, let his eyes drift shut. His day had been long and stressful, and tomorrow looked to be just as busy; he really should try to rest. And besides, Giles’s Anya had been most emphatic about it.

An unwilling smile quirked the edges of his mouth as he settled into the dark. And somehow he thought he heard another woman’s voice whisper above the hum of machines, "Sleep, Wesley. Sleep now, because tomorrow will be busy indeed."


	2. Chapter 2

"Wesley, wake up," Anya said sharply. His light but unmistakable snoring was distracting her from finishing the preparation of the final Peckham not-actually-a-ghoul report. Besides, she didn’t think a client sleeping in the reception area set the right tone for Giles and Jenkins.

Their client didn’t heed her. If anything, he sank further into the armchair, breathing out what sounded like a moan.

She sighed. The poor man did look exhausted, and also stubbly and uncombed. She felt sure he hadn’t slept much last night despite her instructions. Maybe –

"Maybe we should let him sleep just a bit longer," Rupert said softly.

She threw a smile at him over her shoulder. He was standing in the doorway to the conference room, cup of tea in one hand, the Bympit reference work on demon-derived potions and poisons in the other. He also was sporting a black shirt and black jeans, or what she now considered his "No, really, I am a spy" wear, for their forthcoming investigatory errand.

Which reminded her to check her watch. "Our delivery is supposed to be here any minute. I don’t think it looks right for the FedEx guy to walk in on a handsome maniac crashed in one of our chairs." When Wesley snorted in his sleep, she added, "Anyway, if he’s surprised he might whip out his firearm, and then we’d be in trouble."

"Yes. He might." Rupert’s frown went deeper. She realised that he’d been frowning all morning, in between cups of tea and work on their various cases, and nervously she wondered if it was because of last night.

After a quick save of the information she’d just input, she whirled herself out of her chair and at him. Stepping back into the conference room, he set down his mug on the table so he could catch her. She said just for his ears, "Honey, are you okay? You’re not upset or anything?"

"I’m fine, Anya." The frown eased when he looked at her, she thought. She hoped.

Still – "Are you sure? Because although last night was amazing, since it was the first time I’ve ever actually blacked out from a series of orgasms, I know that you had to finish for yourself in the bathroom since I was briefly unconscious and couldn’t take care of you. Non-reciprocal sex isn’t exactly–"

His finger on her lips stopped the flow of her words. Oh, and there was her favourite smile. "Darling, you’re insane." A brush of his mouth against her neck, a hit of his bay rum aftershave and body-warmth, and a whispered, "Don’t you think I enjoyed your pleasure as well? The taste of you, the sounds, the way you melted in my hands?"

"Oh, honey. Oh, _honey_. But with the unconsciousness, I wasn’t sure." Her hands went to his shoulders and squeezed, as she beamed at him. "You know what? When you least expect it, I’ll return the favour with interest."

"Er, really?" His hand travelled a few inches to play with her hair, a finger creating a curl by her ear. "I rather wish you hadn’t told me. I won’t be able to stand the suspense." After a little tug and a grin, he said, "Now, Tuppence, is the report for the Peckham councillors ready to fax? We can’t ignore our other cases, you know."

"You’re right, Tommy, and I’m almost done. Now you get back to work on the possibilities for that green gunk until we have to leave."

"Right. Meanwhile, we’ll let the poor bastard sleep. See if that sorts his headache."

However, Wesley was stirring when she went back into the main office. "Oh, Anya," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I’m sorry, I must have dropped off again."

"This is a signal that you need more rest, which I believe I already told you." She sat back down and started to type again. The Borough authorities needed to be clear on the non-ghoul qualities of the psychic manifestation on the Peckham High Street; Rupert had determined that there was some sort of ectoplasmic energy spill, so that cleansing rather than exorcism would be called for. A sorcerer in Glasgow, Randolph Mortimer, would be their best bet for that task –

Wesley was speaking over the click of her keys. "Yes. I suppose I haven’t been taking care of myself." He wrapped himself up in folded arms, stretched out his legs. "Does Giles need any further help with the research, do you think?"

Her eyes on the crucial paragraph outlining their expenses, she said absently, "No, he’s happy, let him be. Besides, it’ll be a nice rest for him before our spy–" She caught herself, too late.

Wes said, "Your _spy_ –?"

"Nothing. I said absolutely nothing. Go back to sleep." Anya kept her eyes on the screen and her fingers on the keyboard, all the while cursing her honesty and lack of thought. The money had distracted her, she decided.

Wes got up and prowled over to the desk, a move which she saw out of the corner of her eye because she was typing very fast and concentrating, yes she was. _Thirty pounds, forty pence for food, petrol, and parking; see attached_ – "Anya, what did you mean, your ‘spy’?"

"Excuse me, I’m busy on work related to a case that’s not yours," she said. Then she stilled. From out in the hallway came the sound of footsteps and a swirl of expensive smoke under the office door. That was odd, she thought: the FedEx guy usually didn’t smoke on duty.

But the man opening the door – who was about Rupert’s age, extremely tall, more extremely well-dressed, with a lit brown cigarette between his long fingers – was in no way a deliveryman. He sauntered into the front office as if he owned it; also, as if he would be asking a minion to clean it up soon. "Hmm. A tiny little place," he said in an upper-class drawl. "Still, everyone must find his level, what?"

"Uh, okay. Hi, I’m Anya Jenkins," she said, rising and smiling professionally. "This is Giles and Jenkins, Investigations and –"

"Acquisitions, yes, yes," the man said. She noticed that his gaze went to Wesley and stayed there; for a long few seconds the swagger dissolved, although she couldn’t read the expression that replaced it. Then with a deep breath he shrugged back into his attitude. "I’m looking for the Giles half of the firm, if you don’t mind."

"No, we don’t mind." Rupert’s voice came from the conference doorway. The glance she stole at him revealed him at his scariest, just as tall and cold as the visitor was. "Hello, Jools. This is a surprise."

"Ah, Rupert, there you are," the man said. The two met in the middle of the room, hands outstretched as if to cross swords. But they simply shook hands. "Had to look you up, see what an ex-Watcher does with himself after the dust settles."

"This one goes into trade, as it happens," Rupert said, a half-smile on his face. "Which you know already. May I assume that you, er, approve of the work my partner and I did at the Traditionalists?"

"Oh yes, pixies all taken care of, the supply of port safe for future generations of drinkers, well done." The man took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing smoke into the air in a thin blade-line. "But actually, I came to see you regarding that other business of yours."

"Oh?" she said at the same time Rupert did. Beside her – how did he get there? – Wesley tensed in his reaching-for-a-weapon way. Don’t go for the gun, idiot, don’t go for the gun, she thought hard at him. This must have worked, because the hand he’d raised dropped back to the desk. Maybe she had psychic gifts after all. Maybe they could put that in the brochures.

The man said, with another sidelong glance at Wesley, "Yes. I’ve got an asset in hospital, don’t think he’ll be coming out. And Harry tells me that you’re back in the game for the little sister service again. Perhaps you should be brought in on the op I’m running, we thought."

Rupert had caught his breath somewhere early in the man’s speech. "An asset in–?"

"Yes. Well, death blows almost everyone’s cover. And although he’s not dead yet, I hear he soon will be." Another drag, another blade of smoke. "My condolences in advance, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."

"Do I know you?" Wesley’s voice was soft yet ice-edged. With a start, Anya realised just how much he could sound like the visitor –

Who at the moment was staring at Wes and saying, "No. I shouldn’t think you’d remember. And Roger never brought you into the club, did he? For obvious reasons."

She had to put her hand out to Wesley and grab his arm on that one. Even she could feel the hurt in him, like this irritating spy-person had dug into his gut with a knife. But he didn’t move or speak.

Although for a second Rupert looked like he was going to belt the spy-person, instead he said, "Ah, yes. I’ve been impolite. Introductions are in order: Anya, Wes, this is Jools Siviter."

"And I’m sure we’ll all be best friends," Siviter said indifferently. "I know you have clearance, Ms. Jenkins, um, demon history and all." He flicked his gaze over her in a very unpleasant way, then went back to Wes. "And your father no doubt told you of his liaison with MI6, Wyndam-Pryce."

"No. He must have forgotten to mention it."

"Did he now. Well, long story short: the Council of Watchers – Mark One, anyway – always knew on which side its bread was buttered. The juniors were good enough for MI5, but the chiefs talked to us at Six. And who better to liaise with us than the Chief of Wetwork? A bit of demon-torture here, a spot of judicious brutality there, and thus a great deal of information came our way." He paused. "I assume that you’ve got a ward of some kind on this place, Giles, so that our discussion is private?"

"You know I do, or you wouldn’t have started this conversation," Rupert said. "By the way, I can see your own mark."

"Ah. Good eyes." When the Siviter person extended his arm, Anya gasped. That was an extremely powerful sign of protection tattooed on the man’s wrist, just visible under his Phillippe Patek watch. "And my God, look at the time. Can’t stay here chatting all day."

His entire aspect changing, Siviter said, "Right. Roger Wyndam-Pryce had been trying to find out a bit about this Xet-legend nonsense and Ian Gold, or, as you’ve learned, Yeangelt. So far, Rupert old boy, you and Ms. Jenkins have done more in that area than Roger had. However–" he dug in his pocket, then tossed out a piece of paper –"Wyndam-Pryce did find out that there’s some crucial spot of demon-related real estate here in London, called ‘The Terminal.’ Don’t know where it is, but we assumed a link to Yeangelt and whatever nastiness the unknown fellow is planning."

Rupert watched the paper fall. "Thank you. We’d already found the name."

"Yes, when you searched Roger’s desk. Such industry," Siviter said.

"How did you know–" Wesley began.

"My boy, _try_ to think." The man was already at the door by that time, one hand on the doorknob. "Oh, and don’t worry about further contact; Harry will keep me briefed. But I shall say one more thing to you, Giles and Jenkins. Don’t forget about the tribute."

‘Tribute’– Anya remembered the hooded figure at Nalph’s and his demand for the same. Clearly Rupert did too. Not that it mattered, since Siviter had disappeared out the door in a puff of expensive tobacco. She could hear his voice from the hall, saying over-loudly, "And good day to you!"

A FedEx person, holding a small box, replaced him in the last traces of smoke. "Package for Ms. Jenkins?"

"Oh, yes!" She went to the door, a hand on Rupert’s back in passing. His muscles were drawn tight in tension-knots, even though he looked okay. But she couldn’t worry about him at the moment – she had to sign for their important package.

Once the deliveryman had gone, she ripped into the box, down through the layers of packing. "Let’s make sure it made it safely...." Then she pulled out the Nri-encrusted cup she’d ordered from Iezz. The tiny, beautiful object fit into the hollow of her hand, more like a beaten-gold bowl than an actual cup for drinking. However, the small demon-jewels around its lid – for focussing financial power, for calling prosperity – glittered in just the proper way. Nalph would be very pleased.

And she and Rupert had the perfect pretext for visiting the best source of information in central London. Well, they had to deliver the acquisition and collect the bill themselves, didn’t they?

She turned to share her pleasure, but when she saw Wes, all words dried up. He had sat himself on her desk and buried his head in his hands. "Oh God. Why can’t I _remember_?" he said, in a voice all the more disturbing for its cracked quiet.

Rupert put his hand on Wesley’s shoulder – Giles-speciality comfort, she found herself thinking, she’d seen him do it a hundred times to one Scooby or another. "Remember what?"

"Nothing. Everything. Still the headache." Wes shrugged off his distress in a way that seemed familiar, although she didn’t know why. With an attempt at a smile: "So you’re a spy, Giles? As apparently was my father. So very interesting, the things I’m learning on this visit."

Anya exchanged looks with Rupert. Then she said brightly, "Well, learning is good! So why don’t you just stay here, possibly search the Bympit volume for the green gunk ID or maybe go back to sleep because frankly you look like hell, while we’ll go learn more about this Terminal and tribute business."

At Wesley’s glacier-gaze, she sighed again. Stupid ex-Watchers, as stubborn as a summer day was long. He was going to be difficult about this, she just knew it.

***

Staring out the grimy restaurant window at Oxford Street, Wes thought once again that Giles’s partner was possibly the most hardheaded female he had ever met – and he could claim acquaintance with super-beasts, hell-demons, and Cordelia Chase.

Although he’d managed to accompany them out of the Giles and Jenkins office and on their walk through Bloomsbury, she’d stopped outside this dark, almost empty café, a relic from a less mass-marketed time. "As I said, you aren’t going with us to the Mysterious Emporium," she’d announced. "Your head hurts, you’ve not had enough sleep, and you don’t know what you’re doing in this particular matter. Nalph requires special treatment, and Rupert’s got the inconvenient injuries to prove it. So you wait here – I’ll provide a way to keep you occupied in the meantime."

When appealed to, Giles had said, "Anya’s quite right. We’ll call you in when you’re needed, but this is our job. Er, did I hear you mention earlier that you wanted to research?" After digging in the bag that contained the cup for Nalph, he’d tossed him a book and pushed him into the café, while Anya pulled out a mobile from her purse and made some call he couldn’t hear.

Sighing, Wes set aside the small stack of napkins he’d shredded – taking care, however, not to disturb his cup of tepid, flavourless coffee, the crumbs from a truly terrible cake, or his Palm Pilot and its list of Los Angeles appointments he wouldn’t be keeping. _The Accounts of Demon-Derived Poisons and Magick Potions_ , by Arthur Bympit, Council of Watchers, 1887, lay in front of him, open to "Distillations of Uih Blood." The Bympit volume still held the most complete information on the topic, he thought. Strange how some traditions held on.

As the door opened on a new arrival and a blast of warm, humid air – a storm had passed, but more rain was coming -- he checked his watch. His mother hadn’t called him in hours; what that meant about his father’s condition, he couldn’t think.

"My boy, try to think" – Jools Siviter’s words had been far too familiar to Wesley. Those memories burned through the fog that choked his thoughts, although he wished they wouldn’t. Dipped in disdain, his father’s voice had spoken through the other man. Wesley even knew what would come next: "Try to remember who you are. You’re –"

"Wesley? Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?"

He looked up to find a young woman, lovely even with tired eyes and dressed in nondescript business clothes. She managed to sip at her own cup of coffee and tuck a bit of short reddish hair behind her ear at the same time, before she said, "You are Wesley, aren’t you?"

"As far as I know. And you would be—?"

A smile. "Miss Carter will do. I’m a colleague of your, um… what would you call them?"

"Well, I would call them Giles and Anya, although you might not." When she looked faintly surprised, he added, "I met an MI6 agent today, so I have a fairly good idea of what kind of colleague you might be."

"Ah. I don’t work with him, actually, but yes." She indicated an empty chair. "May I?"

"Of course. I seem to have forgotten my manners," he said with some irony. He rose until she’d seated herself, then sank back down.

"I’m not only here to meet with your friends; I’m also here to – how did she put it-- ‘occupy’ you." Her smile, and her mixture of grace, shyness, and competence, somehow reminded him of Fred – Fred whom he had once longed for, whom he expected to long for still, yet whose smiles and chatter no longer affected him as they once had. When had it all changed, he wondered, and what had he lost?

And why did his headache intensify so suddenly, so viciously, at the thought?

Miss Carter’s gaze went to the various items scattered in front of him, her fingers toying with the pages of Bympit. "Interesting reading you have here. ‘ Potion to render a human unconscious, with Uih-blood base: first bleed the Uih with a dagger, cursed twice….’"

As her voice trailed off, he said, "Are you not familiar with such resources?"

"I’m new to this side of the job. My section recently suffered a loss, so I’ve taken on some new duties." A look away, then another Fred-like smile from her; another disorienting lack of feeling from him. "And I hear you are new to a certain notorious law firm in California, with a rather unusual employer?"

"Yes. And that was a smooth turn of subject." He signalled the waitress for another cup of coffee, even though he didn’t really want it. For some reason he didn’t want to think about Angel and his responsibilities at the moment. "I’ve been vetted, I suppose. Do I have a security-service file?"

"Yes. Several, from the Watchers Academy to Los Angeles and steps in between." As the waitress arrived to top off their cups, Miss Carter shut the Bympit – a casual move, but one that hid the lurid illustrations of demon blood-loss from any passersby. He hadn’t even thought about it; in L.A. he didn’t bother to hide who he was. Not like a spy would, at any rate. Not like Giles, not like his father.

"How is your father?" she said, as if reading his mind.

Wes took a sip of his fresh coffee. It remained vile, but it served to take the chill off his memory of a dark, machine-filled hospital room. "He was still with us this morning. Should I guess that my vetting had to do with him, not Giles and Anya?"

A curve of her lips was his only answer, then she turned to look out the window. "Speaking of whom – I see there’s a battle in progress."

He followed her gaze to see Giles and Anya standing in a sheltered shop front across the street. In the interstices between passing traffic and pedestrians, the weak afternoon sun illuminated a fight well underway.

In the voice of a television presenter, Miss Carter said, "The bout seems evenly matched at the moment. She’s impressed her point upon him with a nicely stabbed finger, while he seems to be using his height advantage to add substance to his own arguments. Now, oh dear, she’s raising her hand to him."

"Um-hm. Yet he catches her hand before it can fall. Yes, that attempt was an error on her part. She’s just made him angry, and she appears to have lost ground in the actual discussion." He found himself smiling at the woman. For one moment, he could forget his own troubles and…well, play, which he rarely indulged in. Not since Cordelia and Gunn and the Hyperion. Not since –

A pain behind his eyes knifed through fog. He could hear a woman say Oh, you lost the bet, now pay up, could almost touch the lush female body sliding against his, could smell money and feel soft laughter from them both–

A cough brought him back to the present, where Miss Carter was inspecting him. "Wesley?" she said quietly.

"It’s nothing. I’m sorry." He forced another smile before he looked back outside.

Still holding Anya’s hand, Giles pulled her across the street despite her obviously heated comments. As the two stepped onto the kerb on this side, Wes saw that something discoloured Giles’s jaw. Looked like a fresh bruise was forming. The excursion to see Nalph had been difficult, then.

The two came into the café on another wave of heat and damp. Anya managed to be quiet until she and Giles sat down and ordered two coffees from the bored waitress, but then, in a small explosion: "Okay, we have a few things to report, and then I need to take Rupert somewhere to explain in detail and with illustrations just how wrong he is. So, Zo—wait, am I supposed to call you that?"

"It’s terrible tradecraft. But since we’re among friends, you may call me Zoe," the woman who obviously wasn’t Miss Carter said.

But Giles was speaking over her – "Anya, stop. You know bloody well I’m right." To Wes and the Zoe woman, he said, "We had some small problems with Nalph. The concerns about tribute has put him on edge – enough, er, to react violently to one question too many."

"I don’t know why he hit _you_. It was my question," Anya muttered. Her hand went to his shoulder and clutched as if she were trying to keep him with her by force.

"He hit me because he knew that if he touched you, I’d forget his sodding rules. Perfectly understandable." When she huffed out an angry breath, Giles frowned at her. To the others, he said, "Never mind. The situation is this: whatever the ‘tribute’ is, it’s being taken from a large number of London demons, and it’s going to whoever or whatever Yeangelt is. We assume it’s to fund whatever activity he’s planning – and it seems as if this is a long-term project."

"The number on his advertisement isn’t a phone number, by the way, Nalph let that slip. Which explains why it didn’t turn up in any of our searches or your databases," Anya added. "We’ll see if there’s some kind of code involved."

Zoe leaned closer. "Your next step?"

"Still under discussion." After sending Giles a filthy look, Anya patted her purse in an alarmingly loving manner. "Nalph apparently pays his tribute in human currency, which is why he wanted the cup; I think he plans to do a magick to make up his losses. Anyway, he has access to pounds sterling, as in the cheque he just paid us. But from what he mentioned just before he hit Rupert very hard in the face, not every demon’s tribute is the same. We need to check with at least one other source, see if they’re being affected, what’s being asked of them, and why they’re going along with it. And—"

"And I thought of an informant of mine in Greenwich," Giles said. Looking at Wes, he put his hand on the book. The meaning was clear: there they could also investigate why his father had the sleeping potion, and perhaps what the green liquid on the windows had been.

Anya’s explosion this time rocked the table. "Rupert, _I_ should go, not you! First, look at the trouble you already got into with me at your side, and I can just – "

"Anya—"

"—imagine what idiocy you’d commit on your own. And besides, you’ll be too easy on Grittnak; since he’s been stealing our formula, our own eBay sales are down. That needs to be attended to—"

"Anya!" Giles’s voice was sharp enough to give Wes pause, although it didn’t seem to have much, or indeed any, effect on its target. "You know better than this. For one thing, you haven’t even met the individual in question." Then his hand went to hers, still on his shoulder. Their fingers intertwined, and there was an exchange of glances – a public display of irritated yet loving communication that seemed utterly unlike the Giles whom Wes had known in Sunnydale – before he finished more softly, "Really, Tuppence. You have a cheque to deposit, a report to finish, and that other lead to follow."

"You know, Tommy, sometimes I really dislike you," she said, even as she tightened her hold.

"But I’m doing so much better at the relationship thing," he said, with a private smile for her.

Wesley didn’t know why the word _relationship_ made his head throb again.

When the waitress arrived with the new coffees, conversation lagged. Once the table was theirs again, Zoe said, "Leaving aside any procedural issues and the question of using code-names as endearments, which is even worse tradecraft – you’ve been gathering information on the tribute. What about the other issue?"

"We’ve got a lead on that, something we saw at the shop," Anya said, her eyes never leaving Giles’s. "I’ll make some calls while the idiot here goes off on his own."

"Well, not quite on my own." Ignoring her feminine snort, he looked across the table. "If you’re feeling at all better, Wesley, you’re welcome to join me."

Despite the headache, Wes smiled.

***

At the fifth nasty look from Wesley since they’d crossed Tower Bridge, Giles finally turned down the volume on the car stereo. Despite the new rough-and-tumble grooming and addiction to weaponry, the prat’s taste hadn’t improved since Sunnydale.

On the other hand, perhaps Warren Zevon singing about the indifference of heaven wasn’t exactly the best of omens. At the thought, he touched a finger to his painful new bruise. God, he’d thought Anya was going to fly at Nalph when the blow fell, and what the fuck he would have been able to do then –

Wes coughed once to recall his attention. "Giles, what exactly happened to you in the shop? I didn’t like to ask before."

"Oh. Well, although we managed to complete our business first, there was, er, an error made. The merchant tribe of the Mikh has a strict code of behaviour: cross the line in any direction, and vengeance is exacted." Blinking away the flash of blue claws striking out, he said, "Anya brought up the Terminal directly after we’d initiated some friendly conversation about the rise in tribute, and Nalph wasn’t at all happy about it. Therefore, I assume –"

"—That the Terminal has something to do with the tribute, either the gathering or the distribution. Or at least it has something to do with Yeangelt." Wes nodded, then turned to gaze out the window at the passing scenery.

Not that rainclouds over the lower part of Deptford were the most edifying sight, Giles thought. He could feel the coming weather in his bones. Must be getting old.

"So what’s your plan for this meeting?" Wes said.

"I’d like to keep the interview on a friendly footing. Of course Anya will kill me if I don’t bring up the issue of our formula, which I’ll do first, but I want to hold onto this informant if I can. Long-term plans, you know."

"Sensible." Then he laughed under his breath. "Your partner’s quite…formidable. She rather reminds one of Cordelia, don’t you find?"

"Please, Wesley. That comparison is extremely disturbing any way one looks at it." As he negotiated a tricky turn: "By the by, how _is_ Cordelia? I haven’t heard; is she enjoying the perquisites of Wolfram and Hart?"

"Giles, don’t you know anything that’s been going on? Cordelia’s been in a coma for – I don’t remember exactly."

He forced himself to keep his attention on the road, on the white van pulling out in front of them and the changing lights. When he could, he said, "I’ve heard nothing that’s gone on in L.A. since your apocalypse. Part of my, er, distance from the Sunnydale group." From Buffy and from who he’d been, he silently amended. "Is Cordelia going to recover?"

"We don’t know." Wes spread his hands out on his knees, staring at them as if he’d never seen them before. Then, in a torrent of desperation the likes of which Giles had never heard come out of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce’s mouth, he said, "I don’t know anything any more. My memory… it’s as if there are layers and layers of reality bleeding into one another. I have one clear set of recollections of how we survived the strange appearance of a prophecy-derived godhead and took over Wolfram and Hart. But increasingly I’ve been getting flashes of another reality – of a Beast, of Cordelia who wasn’t really Cordelia, of pain and suffering and horrible loss. Images of a young man I’m sure I should know. It’s been worse here in London. And…." He swallowed hard, fingers going involuntarily to his throat. "I’m hearing a woman’s voice I should recognize, I know I should, but I can’t identify her."

"Dear Lord, Wes." Giles didn’t know what else to say; he’d known that the man was struggling with a heavy burden, but this was more than he could have guessed. It could be psychosis, of course, yet somehow he didn’t think so. Cautiously he said, "Does your current environment at work offer you any clues to this, er, layering of memory?"

"No. I’m the only one who seems troubled. Fred’s happy enough, and so is Gunn – oh, I’m sorry, you haven’t met them. They’re part of Angel’s team." His fingers rubbed at his throat, as if it ached. "Angel’s not entirely satisfied with the choice he made, I believe. But part of that also could be the strain connected to Spike."

"Could be _what_?" He slammed on the brakes when the white van ahead of them stopped abruptly. He told himself that his far too loud voice was because of the bloody horrible traffic, not the bad memories.

"Pay attention to your driving, please," Wes said. "And you know. Spike."

"I knew Spike, yes. I wouldn’t have thought that Angel would have mourned him."

Wes stared at him. "'Mourned'? He’s back, Giles. The second souled vampire, um, unliving in Los Angeles."

Time to make the turn away from the river and up the hill toward Grittnak’s. Methodically Giles checked the traffic, took the turn. He controlled his temper and his sudden lurch of heart in the few moments it took to wind around to the narrow, dirty, and aptly named Demon Street. Once he’d found a parking space, he said, "Wes, could you explain? Spike died in the course of saving the world, when Sunnydale fell."

"Yes, but he’s returned. A mystical resurrection, which is tied somehow to Angel and an amulet," Wes said. "You mean no one told you all?"

Images from the last months in Sunnydale caught at him : his love bleeding on the cellar floor with Spike’s marks on her; that berk’s smug grin changing to an honest smile days later, as Spike and he came to a better understanding over a cigarette and Iggy Pop; sunlight burning down on ruin and dust, and Buffy’s wounded eyes. "Anya and I weren’t told. Does Buffy know?"

Wes said evenly, "I have no idea if Angel’s spoken to her. Or if Spike has, for that matter."

"Good God," Giles said. He glanced at the eighteenth-century houses on either side of the street, the rubbish collecting along the railings, the not-quite-humans hanging on the gate a few doors down. "Never mind, we can discuss this later. We’re here."

In answer, Wes got out of the car and slammed the door.

When Giles got out, he pulled his pack of smokes from his shirt pocket. He could do with a cigarette to calm his nerves. When he got his lighter too, however, he caught Wes staring at him again. "What?" he said around the cigarette in his mouth, then put flame to paper. He inhaled tobacco and coming rain, exhaled smoke and a momentary ease.

"Nothing." Wes half-smiled. "It’s just…we’re not in Sunnydale any more."

The words echoed as Giles opened the gate to a moss-covered house, the most dilapidated on this street of disrepair. What stone was visible was discoloured like his new bruise; windows were set askew, the door wasn’t fully hinged. If one looked up at the edges of the roof, one could see alien leaves, yellow and green and a strangely shimmering purple, curling around the chimneys.

Beside the front door was a small, battered sign: _Potions for Use and Pleasure. Please ring_. Of course there wasn’t a doorbell visible, which was part of the security process. Giles rapped out the secret code, then whispered into the keyhole, "A friend come to seek entrance, Grittnak." One more rap, high against the door –

Inside, a bell tolled.

Heavy footsteps followed the strokes of the bell. When Wes raised his eyebrows, Giles smiled noncommittally and said, "Just let me handle this. And remember I’d like to stay on good terms with him -- no unnecessary gunplay, please."

The door cried itself open, and a seven-foot, vaguely humanoid shape dressed in rags peered out. A smile creased the already wrinkled face. "Oh, it is you, Robert! Long, long time since I’ve seen you, although I’ve so enjoyed your letters, you’re such a charming correspondent… Come in, come in."

"Robert?" Wes whispered as they crossed the threshold.

"Er, yes. He knows me as Robert Gordon. Let me handle this," Giles repeated.

Although the hall was encrusted with damp and dirt not of this dimension, as always the staircase was swept clean for visitors. They followed the trailing rags up the steps past the third floor to a ladder leading to a round hole in the roof. Grittnak was halfway up the rungs before Giles could take a breath. "Leave your smoke-stick in the receptacle provided, it’s bad for the plants," the demon said over his shoulder, "but then you may come up to my outdoor office."

As he had done a hundred times before, Giles crushed out his cigarette in the ashcan before stepping up on the ladder. Wes was on his heels.

Swirling up to meet the blue-black storm clouds, the rooftop scents were overpowering. Grittnak cultivated a few earth-plants, but most of his growths were demon- or extra-dimensionally derived. In rows along the edges of the space and in its centre were spills of purple, green, and yellow leaves; misshapen fungi from various dimensions poked out from the corners; even a small laceprig web rustled in the corner, with a cheerfully growling Kizzyoit underneath it. The late Arthur Bympit would have had a bloody heart attack if he’d ever seen this source of raw materials, Giles thought.

Grittnak had ensconced himself on a mossy bench. With a wave of claws and rags, he said, "I have chairs, Robert and friend. You are a friend, I trust?"

Wes said, "Yes. I believe you’ve traded with my father – Roger Wyndam-Pryce?"

The claws steepled, and Grittnak bowed his head over them. "Such an angry human, with so many idle questions. The anger and lack of answers kept him awake at night, I fear. Yes. But he never mentioned a son."

"Wesley has been living elsewhere for many years. By the way, Roger’s unlikely to visit you again, as he has fallen gravely ill," Giles said, taking the seat closest to Grittnak and gesturing Wes to a place slightly further away. As the Nakgut, humming, courteously pulled his rags closer to his body, Giles added, "Also, er, you might not want to call me Robert. I have another name, you see." He took a moment to prepare himself. "Rupert Giles, of Giles and Jenkins, Investigations and Acquisitions; formerly of the Magic Box."

"Oh. Ohhh." Grittnak flushed a deep orange. "Nalph just mentioned… ohhh. You are the Giles whose partner Anya trades on the humans’ internet and who, I am given to understand, was once Anyanka?" He said her old demon name with a drawn-out sigh that lifted up dirt in the pots all around them, spinning tops of dust that hurt to breathe.

"She is indeed my partner and companion," Giles said, once he could speak. "And she hasn’t been entirely happy about the laceprig formula for sleeplessness you’ve been selling, I must admit."

"So I hear as well," Grittnak said. "What do _you_ think about that, Robert Rupert?"

"I think that you and I have known each other for a long time, Grittnak. I further think that we can reach an agreement that allows you to trade but doesn’t ignore my partner’s and my claim. For you know as well as I do how you got the idea for the laceprig formula; as you say, I have been a faithful correspondent."

The brown eyes, lashed with long sharp spikes, gazed at him unreadably.

This was the tricky bit – Giles extended his hand, palm up, the Nazgut’s symbol of openheartedness. The lashes brushed blood and alien dust against Grittnak’s wrinkled cheeks as the creature considered, but then he gripped Giles’s hand. "I have always liked you, Robert Rupert. You understand complication and ambiguity."

"I have always tried to understand such things," he said, ignoring the claws biting into his hand.

Before the negotiation could continue, the bell tolled again. Grittnak moved to peer over the roofline, then shrank down behind a chimneypot, exhaling a series of plosives that despite their long association Giles couldn’t translate. The import, however, was clear: Grittnak was terrified of what he saw below.

"Hide," the demon said urgently. "Hide behind the boium tree and do not show yourself, unless...." Without finishing, he whisked himself to the hole in the roof and looked down.

"Which is the—?" Wes began.

"Come on." Collaring him, Giles pulled him behind the elephant-eared, yellow-and-green plant, twice as tall as they were and lushly leafed, which stood in the far corner of the roof garden. Under his breath, he added, "Don’t touch it. Acid-burn."

They crouched together as something or someone heavy thudded up the flights of stairs and started up the ladder. Those thuds were familiar; he’d heard them upon another demand for tribute.

Gingerly he eased around so that he could see. Grittnak, shaking in his rags, stretched down a hand through the opening; after long claws reached up to wrap themselves in fabric, a bulky, hooded figure jumped onto the roof. The impact shook the whole building. "Where is the week’s offering for Yeangelt, you quivering son of a Nazgut?" the newcomer demanded in a register below bass.

"I have already paid, Master Hat, as you may remember." Grittnak cleared his throat. "These constant demands are becoming excessive –"

"Yeangelt has promised to change your life, farmer, in ways surface and deep. Why are you kicking at a little more tribute?" The figure stepped closer; in a blur of movement Grittnak was caught, held up in the air. Yes, he did kick. "Where is the boium leaf we require?"

The boium – bloody hell, he hadn’t even put it together. There was a fucking good reason Grittnak had put them behind this plant. Wes whispered, "Oh. In Bympit. Uih blood with boium leaf…."

"Um-hm. Coma," Giles whispered back. He noted that Wes knew enough about surveillance not to pronounce any ‘s’ sounds: the man had acquired some field skills in Los Angeles. "Wait."

Grittnak struggled in the punishing grasp, his claws flailing at the arm that held him, his rags fluttering in the wind from the approaching rain. "Master Hat," he wheezed, "if I give you more too soon, the source may die."

The hooded figure’s hand tightened. "Then you will have to find another source, won’t you. My master needs it." At Grittnak’s nod, he let him down. "Tribute now, farmer."

Grittnak stumbled toward their hiding place. There were dusty tear-tracks on his wrinkles, and he appeared to be having difficulty breathing. As he came closer, Giles could read the lip movements he made: ‘Help, help.’

Wes said softly, "Now?"

Giles nodded. "But don’t fire if you don’t have to. I have an idea."

They burst out from either side of the boium tree. Out of the corner of his eye Giles saw Wes pull his gun and level it at the creature, heard a chill "Stop." But he had his own goal – the laceprig web. Dodging the enraged Kizzyoit, he pulled off a handful of leavings and then crushed them in his hand.

The collector-demon growled, "What is this defiance, Grittnak?" Before the sentence was finished, he leapt toward them all, claws out and fangs gleaming through the hood.

"Wes, hold!" With three steps Giles was close enough to the charging demon to throw the powder in its eyes and shout "Dorma."

The creature’s collapse, inches from the others, shook the roof once more.

When Grittnak toed at the demon, dust rose. "Ohhh. Very good thinking. Master Hat should sleep for several minutes, which gives me just enough time to work Lethe’s Bramble and to substitute a little something for the accursed tribute." Then he turned to them. "I thank you both for your help. You understand friendship, Robert Rupert, and Wesley. In return, I will aid you as far as I can."

Giles coughed at the dust, but managed, "Will you answer some questions I have about why you’re having such inconvenient guests?"

"Ohhh. As far as I can." A gust of wind carrying the first scent of the storm fluttered the rags. "But let me take care of this one first. Wait."

As Grittnak disappeared down the ladder, Giles said, "Well done, Wes – but, er, you can put your weapon down now."

"Oh. Oh, of course." As he checked the safety and stowed the gun, he said, "That was… interesting. I had no idea that you could move that fast."

"Well. Changes, you know. As you rightly said, we’re not in Sunnydale any more." At Wes’s laugh, he put out his hand. "I’m rather glad we’re not."

"Ex-Watchers resurgent?" Wes said coolly. But he took Giles’s hand and hung on.

"Ex-Watchers resurgent," Giles said.

They shook on it, even as the sky went dark, as rain began to patter on the alien leaves all around.

***

Rain gleamed like tear-tracks on the bedroom windows. But it wasn’t storming yet.

As Anya wriggled into her extremely tight new trousers, she reviewed her completed to-do list. Nalph’s payment deposited, yes. Peckham report finished and sent off, yes. Background check initiated on the two exciting new clients who’d called that afternoon, yes. Futile follow-up call to Dawn regarding Willow-angst and sigil-research, yes. Investigation of their Terminal lead, yes. New spy-appropriate clothes bought to be worn on their business outing tonight and to stun her errant partner, oh very much yes – and also hah.

Time for the next step. "Honey?" she called. "Do you want a drink before we go?"

An affirmative mumble came from the direction of the study, where, after his nap post-afternoon-adventure and their light supper, Rupert had gone to e-mail more consolation to Willow and research tips to Dawn.

She clattered down the stairs to get their Scotch. From her continued reading in detective fiction, it seemed right that partners drink the same thing, and anyway she had begun to enjoy the liquid burn.

In passing she cast a glance at her candles in the entry. She had lit them as soon as she had gotten home, before Rupert returned from his annoying outing with Wesley. Touching flame to wick, she’d wished that he would stay safe – which of course she always did, but it meant more today. Her stomach had kept knotting whenever she remembered the way Nalph’s hand had struck at his face, the way he had stood up straight and absorbed the blow that should have been aimed at her.

He always tried to do that. She thought sometimes that he was over-compensating, not just for the time Spike had tried to kill her in Buffy and Dawn’s basement but also for all the times he hadn’t been able to save his loved ones – the person who’d died when he was Ripper, the dead girlfriend Jenny, Buffy (twice), even Willow trying to end the world.

That habit was going to have to change. Maybe she could get Cassa to make a call tonight.

As she reached up to get the tumblers and the Scotch, she considered the lead she’d worked that afternoon. During their Emporium visit she and Rupert had both seen the same new card pinned to Nalph’s bulletin board; it advertised the services of Cassa Dreams, a self-proclaimed "contact medium," now available for nightly consultation and multi-dimensional calls from her office near Waterloo Station.

 _Where the terminal has no meaning_ , the slogan on the card read.

After some background research, which revealed that the human Cassa had just emigrated here with some powerful if unnamed demon backing, Anya had called her. Tommy and Tuppence Beresford now had a late appointment to learn more "about communicating with the lost." She’d had to make a second call, too – Wesley had insisted on going, which Rupert stupidly had supported, and Zoe had wanted to participate as well. Anya had booked them under the code names Rory and Troy Alleyn, just for symmetry’s sake. Actually, she hoped Roger Wyndam-Pryce lived through the night, or it could be an uncomfortable evening.

And thinking of discomfort, she also hoped that Rupert had made his decision about the latest news. Time to find out.

"So," she said as she walked into the study, "did you decide to tell Buffy about the miraculous vampire return or not?"

"Er, yes. In a way. She wouldn’t want me to interfere in her life, you know," he said. He sat at his father’s desk, staring at his open laptop, the study lamp gilding his hair and profile in the way she loved best. Without looking at her, he shut down the computer. "I sent an email recommending her to call Angel at once to check on a, a new arrival."

"But I thought Angel might be one of the ones keeping the information from her? And why not call her directly?"

"I don’t have the number. She’s not in Cleveland at the moment; she and Faith are escorting Marta Aguirre to Qui--" His words broke off when he did look at her. His eyes widening behind his glasses, his hands grasping the edge of the desk, he said just above a whisper, "Oh dear God."

Hah, she thought. And— "Breathe, honey." After she set down the Scotch and tumblers on the desk, she spun around so that he could get the full effect of the black leather jeans, fitted black leather vest, and skyscraper-heel boots which she’d purchased that afternoon at a shop in Covent Garden. She’d left the matching short trench coat for later. "Doesn’t this outfit look like something a spy should wear? Andrew told me that all the best female spies were partial to black leather."

"Bloody hell." He grabbed for the liquor bottle and splashed a goodly portion into his tumbler. After he swallowed a third of its contents, he exhaled hard. "Darling, that’s, er…."

"Do you like it?"

"Come here." Pulling her into his lap, he threaded the fingers of one hand through her hair and then kissed her, all heat and oak and Rupert-taste. Although she briefly considered her purpose, the thought wisped away like alcohol in flame. She loved the way he kissed, loved the way he was already stirring beneath her.

Then, lifting his mouth a millimeter away from hers, he said, "I like it very much indeed. But is this some form of vengeance?"

"Oh yes," she said, closing the distance between them. More, more, more—

"No, stop." He held her back. "All right, Anya. You’ve made your point."

She stretched against his lap, enjoying his immediate response. "What point is that, Rupert?"

"That is – I, I don’t actually know." He dragged her back for another fast, hard kiss, then slid his free hand down to cup her bottom. "However, I’m sure I could discover it if I put my mind to it."

"Think carefully about your bad behaviour today." She nipped at his ear. "Your extremely bad behaviour in several areas."

"Darling, let me explain something. Your wearing this gives me great pleasure, which in turn might encourage further behaviour of the sort you find ‘extremely bad.’"

"Even if I wear it to our work appointment tonight?" At his narrowed eyes, she smiled. "Yes. Thought so."

"Right then, let me explain something further." Leaning back in the chair, he took another sip of Scotch, which reminded her to pour her own drink. Then she rearranged herself more comfortably on his lap, ignoring the creaks made by her clothing. Even as his hand stole up to caress her back under her vest, he said dryly, "Lovely listening position."

She took her first swallow. Actually, she liked the taste better on his tongue, but whatever. "Okay, go on. You were going to be pompous about something, I think."

"Ha." He took another sip, then cleared his throat. "Let’s set aside the fact that it’s going to be rather difficult for me to concentrate on work if you wear this. As you might realise if you thought for five seconds about the source –"

"You really don’t like Andrew, do you?"

"-- correction, the utterly irritating source of the information – your outfit fairly shouts your new vocation. As Zoe would say, it’s not good tradecraft."

"You always wear black when you’re playing spy, honey."

"I do not. I—" He looked down at his shirt and jeans, then sighed. "Fine. Fine, I’ll bloody change, and by the way, it’s not the colour that’s the problem with your fetish-wear. But further, darling, how do you propose to run in these?" He slipped his hand down to her boot and grasped its four-inch heel.

"We’re going to be running? Anyway, I assume that you would throw your manly body between me and any danger, so I wouldn’t have to sprint."

"Er, of course I would, but we have to plan…. Oh for fuck’s sake, that’s it. You’re still angry about the Nalph thing."

She brushed her fingertips against his darkening bruise. Although he winced, he didn’t move away. "Although naturally I prefer not to be hurt, Rupert, I don’t want you to be hurt either."

"Accidents happen. Trouble happens. And since you wouldn’t be doing this job if it weren’t for me, I’m responsible for you." Funny how he could go so still and cold, faster than the flutter of an eyelash. "This is not negotiable, Anya."

"Rupert—"

"No. Wear the sodding outfit if you want, but it’s not going to change my mind." He took another sip. "Is punishment being meted out for anything else?"

She considered pursuing his duty-and-honour-and-martyrdom neurosis, but – "You took Wesley to Grittnak’s instead of me."

"Think for a minute, darling." With hands and a shift of his body, he encouraged her to snuggle back against him. "Wesley can’t control what’s going on with his father, and apparently he can’t control what’s going on with his memory either. He needed one thing he could handle. He did quite well, too: only pulled the gun when it was necessary, didn’t fire."

"But from what you say as well as my own observation, he’s going crazy."

"I don’t think he is. Unfortunately, something else is putting pressure on him. A spell, perhaps."

"Oh _great_ ," she sighed. "We’re taking Mr. Mystically Impaired with us to see the medium. Frankly, I don’t think Zoe’s going to be enough sanity to balance this out."

He pulled her closer, arms banding against her stomach in warmth and protection (and the creak of leather). When she murmured about his scratches, he said, "I’ll be fine if you’re careful. Anyway, Anya, I have a feeling that Wesley’s presence may be the key to tonight’s investigation."

"You have ‘a feeling.’ Uh-huh. Because you’re so intuitive." A deep breath. "That was sarcasm."

"Thank you, darling, I caught it." Then he chuckled. " You know, I was just thinking – you’ve picked the most ridiculous code-names in the history of espionage for Wes and Zoe."

"Honey, my reading should be good for something."

He laughed out loud at that. Leaning back and resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder, she took another drink. Oh this was just great, she found herself thinking. First, their appointment suddenly seemed far more ominous, what with Wesley being insane and/or enspelled. Second, it was exasperating how Rupert kept winning arguments with that unfair mixture of logic and cajoling – and it annoyed her how much she loved him anyway. Third, leather chafed like hell; she had no idea how Buffy and Faith Slayed in the stuff.

A sudden thunderclap rattled the windows of the study, the lights flickering with the impact. The storm was here.

***

The black cab splashed through the puddles on Waterloo Bridge, sending water up over the windows. Even as Wesley rubbed at the glass, the lights of the South Bank and the reflections off the river seemed to merge together. Layers and layers of reality, layers and layers of pain.

"You’re not needed, Wesley," his mother had said. He’d gone to the hospital after the Greenwich trip, but there had been no change in his father’s condition: still weakening, but hanging on. When he’d offered to take over so that she could rest – although she looked her usual elegant self, she seemed frail and dead-white in those horrible hospital fluorescents – she’d stared at him. "He doesn’t need you to watch him after all these years."

Broken words about fathers and sons and devouring kept scrolling across his mind, a message from nowhere. God, his head ached. It had felt better this afternoon, but now—

"You’re not needed right now," Gunn had said. After the hospital, he’d gone home to change for the evening’s investigations; once there, he’d found himself ringing Wolfram and Hart. He knew Angel wouldn’t be in yet – a vampire CEO had some flexibility in his hours – but Gunn would be working. There had been a pleasant exchange of shoptalk, something about a wolf-girl and a nineteenth-century spell which Wes had vaguely remembered. When he’d told Gunn that he could return at any time to assist, however, Charles had said kindly, "We’re fine, English. Got it covered. Angel doesn’t need you to watch him after all these damn years, you know?"

The glass was fogging up. He couldn’t see much of anything. Couldn’t–

"We’re here, mate," the driver said. "York Road."

When he got out of the cab, he had to wipe the rain out of his eyes. Waterloo Station loomed across the road; umbrellas and pedestrians jostled in front of him, heading for the Underground; their hands clasped, Giles and Anya – what on earth was the woman wearing? – stood in the sheltered doorway of a sleek, modern office building. "Hey, ‘Rory’! Over here!" she shouted.

Giles sent her a quelling look over the top of his glasses, then grinned. The man was besotted, Wes thought. He couldn’t understand why he suddenly wanted to smile too.

"Where’s our fourth?" he asked when he reached them.

"Inside. Come on," Giles said, shepherding them into the building.

The lobby was quiet polished stone and glass, its gleaming surfaces reflecting themselves. It was deserted, like any normal office building at ten o’clock at night, except for the security guard playing cards at the reception desk.

Zoe – no, she needed to be addressed as Troy now – stood just inside the door. The way her hand touched her ear suggested that she was communicating with someone through an earpiece. Under her breath she said, "Okay, Fox, we’re going," before leaning up to brush her lips against his cheek, soft and sweet and utterly surprising. When he startled, she said, "Sweetheart, you don’t want to greet me properly?"

"Actually, in the book Troy was scared of physical – oh, got it. Tradecraft," Anya said, before she led the way to the reception desk. When the guard looked up over his hand of spades, she beamed at the man. "Hi! We have a ten o’clock appointment with Cassa Dreams. The Beresfords and the Alleyns."

Another card snapped onto the stone countertop -- the queen of hearts, staring at nothing. "Yeah right, you’re on the list. Second lift‘ll take you right to her."

The doors of the lift hissed open even before Giles touched the call button.

As the four of them crowded inside the mirrored space, Wes began, "What floor—" However, instead of numbers, the lift keypad had the names and logos of the firms in residence. Where the sign for the seventh floor should be, the legend "Cassa Dreams" was printed in bold, in the centre of a decoratively rendered woman’s scarf. Underneath the main image was a small Old English word he couldn’t quite see.

"It’s ‘call,’ Rory," Giles said. "A match for the one on Yeangelt’s flyer."

When Anya pressed the button for Cassa Dreams, it lit a dark, poisonous green. Wesley could almost hear the mirrors crack.


	3. Chapter 3

Giles thought that the lift button was a nice touch, sure to pull in the punters. "Effective atmospherics," he said dryly, as they began their ascent.

Anya sent him a grin so fast that he almost didn’t catch it. "Great acting, honey. You sound exactly like a sceptical jerk," she whispered, just in case of audio or visual eavesdropping devices, then said with her normal enthusiasm, "Oh, come on, come on! You’ve got to give it a shot!"

"I’m only here because you wanted to come," he said in his most supercilious voice. "It’s balderdash and chicanery, this medium business." But he interlaced their fingers and returned her smile just as fast.

"Absolutely," Wes said. "A load of nonsense, if you ask me." He looked a little less fraught than this afternoon, less like he’d break if someone breathed on him too hard – ah, work, the great healer. He too was playing a sceptic and a bit of an arse; terrible gender- and class-stereotyping, but that was Anya’s and Zoe’s idea.

As the lift doors opened on Cassa Dreams’ floor, motion-sensitive corridor lights flashed in their eyes from high and low and angled off the mirrors, leaving the space outside deeply dark when it was gone. The air smelled of incense and smothered fire. More theatrics, of course– and Giles’s own synapses fired.

The office of Cassa Dreams Ltd was a few doors downs from the lift, its window on the corridor throwing green neon light into the dimness. When they went into the hall, he pulled Anya a step further away, saying loudly, "Last chance. Are you quite, quite sure you want to do this?" Then he whispered, "Did you put on a ring? Tuppence would have one."

Her eyes widened. "Oh! Of course I do!" Then she looked down at her hands – which were bare. She must have forgotten the small detail in the midst of vengeance fetish-dressing, and he’d been far too distracted by her to check.

He leaned down to nuzzle her hair; even more important than inhaling a hit of her perfume, the position blocked anyone in the Cassa Dreams direction from seeing him work his father’s ring off his little finger. Under his breath he said, "It’ll be far too big, sorry. But perhaps you can keep it turned round – or try, at any rate."

She rested her forehead against his shoulder as he slipped it onto her ring-finger, so he couldn’t see her face when she whispered, "D’Hoffryn would have had my head if I’d been so stupid as a demon. Thanks, honey, I’ll take good care of it." He didn’t know why she mentioned the vengeance chief, why something in her voice rang out of tune. But when she raised her head she smiled brightly, perhaps too brightly, and said, "Come on, Tommy! You know what I want, or we wouldn’t be here."

Locking his arm around her leather-clad waist, he said, "All right, darling. Whatever it is, I want you to have it."

Truth so often was the best cover.

Up by the office window, Wes and Zoe turned their heads in inquiry. The neon made their faces seem shadowed, ill. "Everything all right, Tommy?" Zoe said.

"Yes, sorry, Troy. Rory." He noted that she did wear a plain wedding band. Well, at least he’d remembered the other supplies, and the way Wes’s hand rested in his pocket suggested that he too had remembered what they’d collected that afternoon. "Why don’t you– "

Before he could finish, the main door opened, and a man’s smooth grey head appeared. Light eyes scrutinising them, he said in a basso profundo voice, "Ah, are you the ten o’clock appointment?"

"Yes, we’re the Alleyns and the Beresfords," Zoe said. "And you are–?"

"Not Cassa Dreams, I assume. Unless the name is very misleading and she’s not a woman?" Wesley said. Bleating a laugh, he tightened his arm around Zoe’s shoulders and tried to look doting, with a fair amount of success. The indulgent look she gave in return was more convincing, however.

The man said, "I’m the intake specialist; you speak to me before you see the medium. But come in."

"‘Intake specialist’? That’s a receptionist, right?" Anya said. Giles hid his smile against her hair, especially as the man seemed utterly affronted.

Or was it a man? As the four of them followed the specialist into the main reception area – floor lamps in each corner, long loose drapery on the walls, and an empty desk without computer, files or any kind of office supplies – Giles thought there was something dead and still about the figure. Even outside the strange neon light his skin had a livid tinge, and the drapery didn’t stir as he passed. "Have a seat, please," he said, indicating the four chairs in front of the desk, then took his own place. That meant he was at least corporeal.

Sliding black-tinted glass doors filled the wall behind him. Giles thought back to the building blueprint Zoe had faxed over earlier: Cassa Dreams Ltd. leased half the seventh floor, which consisted of two large open spaces, this reception area, and Cassa Dreams’s office itself, while the other half stood conveniently empty. He could hear a faint hum from whatever lay behind the doors, could sense bitter-almond smoke and magick.

This op might be more dangerous than he had anticipated.

The intake specialist produced a sheet of paper from nowhere before getting a pen from his jacket. Bending over the paper so that Giles couldn’t see what was printed on it, the man said, "For our records here, could you give me your names and addresses?"

Zoe said, "Oh, right. Rory and Troy Alleyn. I’m Troy." After she gave a false address in Chelsea – because they seemed like the type, didn’t they – she pushed her hair behind her ears and added, "What do we call you?"

"Your intake specialist." He didn’t look up. "Next name, please?"

Anya said, "Sure, okay, but it’s my belief that we should always know the name or names of whom we’re dealing with. In case we have to complain later." When the man bristled, she smiled. "No offense, I’m sure you won’t do anything to violate good customer relations! But still."

"Quite right, darling, your policy’s served us well in the past," Giles said. He let one hand slip forward to grasp the edge of the desk – which could be read as either a threat or support for Anya, but also allowed him to rub a trace of Grittnak’s specially prepared powder on the desk surface.

A stronger smell of bitter almonds, a spark inside his fingertips, and a thin, almost imperceptible line snaking from his point of contact: "the signs of darkness, surface and deep," the old son of a Nazgut had said. Giles didn’t like the signs at all.

The intake specialist turned his gaze to him. With a tilt of his head like the slide of a precisely calibrated scale: "Your wife is American? She doesn’t have an accent like the rest of you."

Thank Christ she didn’t try, Giles thought. "Tuppence isn’t originally English, correct. But you haven’t told us your name yet."

The hiss and scent of magick intensified yet again; Giles wasn’t clear if it was coming from behind the glass or from the man. But the man said calmly enough, "You may call me Pennith. And your names and addresses?"

Anya said, "Well, Mr. Pennith, by process of elimination you should guess we’re the Beresfords; I gave the name when I made the appointment. We live at 14 Primrose Crescent, NW1. Do you need me to spell anything?"

"Ah. No." He nodded as if the answer confirmed something, then jotted it down.

From behind the glass doors came a shriek, then a gurgled cry, accompanied by a rattling close thunderclap. Giles had almost forgotten that it was storming. "Good Lord," Wes said. "What’s going on in there?"

"The previous appointment," Pennith said without looking up. "And how will you be paying for your visit today?"

Zoe reached into her purse and pulled out a credit card. "Access all right?" With Wes hanging on her shoulder, she smiled over at the two of them. "Happy anniversary, Tuppence! And Tommy, of course."

Happy secret-service ability to conjure up cards and credit ratings at the drop of a hat, Giles thought. Anya beamed back at Zoe. "You’re a sweetheart, Troy. This is so fun, isn’t it fun, Tommy?"

"If you say so, darling. Seems like a bloody stupid way to spend our night, but if it’s so important for you to see beyond...." He petted her hair.

"Lovely to see such devotion," Pennith said, even as he ran the card through a hidden scanner, his arm stroking downward like a knife scoring through flesh.

Giles unobtrusively put his free hand to his face, breathing the traces of protection left from Grittnak’s powder. He needed the insight. When he looked back up, Pennith’s gaze had lowered, but his smile had deepened. Dark edges, bitter almonds.

Wes said, "Sorry, sorry, could we have another of Cassa Dreams’ business cards? Part of our accounting system, you know, keep it with our receipts."

"Of course, Mr. Alleyn." Was there undue emphasis on the name? Giles couldn’t be sure. Pennith pushed the credit slip across the desk for Zoe to sign, then flicked out of nowhere a card for Wes–

Who, upon taking it, said, "Oh dear. Your slogan’s changed, hasn’t it?"

"What’s that, sir?"

Another silly-arse laugh, at which Wes was far too good, then: "Well, Troy saw an advert saying that Cassa Dreams was ‘where the terminal has no meaning.’ It’s why the girls chose the place, because of the ripping-the-veil aspect, the lack of, er, terminal, if you believe that sort of thing. But this is different." He showed the card to the others. Adjusting his glasses, Giles struggled to see – but Wes read it off for them: "‘Where the terminal has _new_ meaning.’ Different, yes?"

Anya’s hand clamped on his thigh, the stone on the borrowed ring cutting into him with the pressure of her hold. Of course she had it on upside down. Cuts could swell with blood, just as his had, dark billowing up from below –

Pennith said, "I’m sorry, sir, I fail to see the problem. In either case, the terminal isn’t exactly what you thought." Before anyone could respond, he stood. "I believe that it’s time to end the previous session. If you’ll wait here, please." Sliding the black-glass doors open just a few inches, enough to reveal more green light and sparks, he went into the inner sanctum. The doors slid shut behind him.

Wes leaned closer, saying sotto voce, "I can’t quite tell. Vampire?" Zoe couldn’t cover her flinch at the word.

"Robot, I’d say," Anya whispered. "We know ‘bots."

"No, neither, I think," Giles said quietly. "But it’s bad." His hand covered Anya’s, which still cut into his leg. Even more quietly, "Darling, please be careful when we go in."

"That’s a completely unnecessary request, honey. Like I want either of us wounded, killed, or magically damaged!" But when she kissed him, her lips trembled underneath his. Ignoring the op for a second, he leaned in a little more and deepened the kiss for comfort. She made a sound in her throat, caught at his shoulder with her free hand –

Then glass scraped against glass, incense-laden air blew in, and a woman’s voice said over masculine sobs, "Next session will be easier, my dear boy."

Breaking away from Anya just a hairbreadth, Giles saw a young man, eyes reddened and dark skin blotched, standing in the doorway. His hand on Pennith’s arm, he said to someone behind him, "Yes, Ms. Dreams. I’ll remember your words, and I’ll be here next week." He swallowed his tears and whatever else he might have said, then bowed his head, trembling.

As the intake specialist led the client away, the woman came into the reception area. Giles noted the basics: slightly taller than average, late 40s, ivory Isadora Duncan scarf, and, good Lord, was that a tiara in her salt-and-pepper hair? Smiling at him and Anya, she said in an American accent, "Your public display there leads me to believe you’re the anniversary couple! Welcome, I’m Cassa Dreams." Then she turned to Zoe and Wes. "And what good friends you are to give them this experience, and to come along too."

Giles didn’t think that it was his imagination that her eyes rested on Wesley a little too long, and when she glanced back at him and Anya, there was too much...something. Blocking out the others and the sounds of Pennith and the previous client in the corridor, he used the last bit of the powder to look again. Sparks burst in the scarf that encircled her neck. More dark edges, but it was different, it was.... gone, blinked away by her widened green eyes.

Too much green for his taste. It wasn’t the colour of life, of growing things, but a stark death-colour, like something stirred up from the mire. It needed –

"Honey?" Anya yanked on his hand, pulling him back to the moment. He felt her nerves even before he looked at her, before he registered how high her voice had gone. "What happened?"

"Nothing, darling, sorry." His voice sounded strange to his own ears.

He looked back at Cassa Dreams: folded arms, folded lips, ivory silk wrapped like a noose. She said, "Mr. Beresford, my notes say we’re supposed to be, um, contacting your mother in our communication with the lost, or so your wife said. She also said you would take convincing, but you seem to be a little... too sensitive?...to be an unbeliever."

Anya started to speak, but he silenced her with a glance. They’d agreed that his mother would be their designated contact person, because, as he had explained, Deborah Giles living or dead would have no dealings with mediums. Despite the potential for disaster with a real spiritualist, if Cassa Dreams was such, they should be safe with that choice. A good agent thought about safety, especially when he was responsible for three other people as well.

However, a good agent also knew enough to go off-piste when the situation called for it. And even though he’d failed her by his absence, he remembered a friend whom they could trust. "Actually, we’ve changed our minds. Not that I believe this rot, but just in case, we wish to contact someone who wasn’t there to see us get together." Squeezing Anya’s hand to warn her, he said, "Her name was Tara."

Cassa Dreams said, "She was lost?"

After a pause, Anya said, "She was lost to us. Murdered horribly when she was young. Actually, the aftermath was pretty bloody too, and also destructive of valuable property."

The medium gazed at them all, then nodded. "Good. Tricky, perhaps, but we have a name and a purpose. Follow me into my Working Room."

Zoe and Wes fell behind them – probably trying to get a last look at Pennith, who hadn’t returned to the office. But Giles didn’t have time to think about that, what with doors opening in front of them, with Anya’s whispered, "What’s the deal?"

He brought their linked hands up, brushed a kiss against her palm. A whisper back: "Safety. Er, I hope."

Although she clearly wanted to pepper him with questions, because they had entered the Working Room she stayed quiet. The medium stood at the far side of a round wooden table, which was centred in a circle of light – sodding green light, of course. Behind her was a wall of windows, night-opaque, with rain drumming against them.

Anya had said earlier that he wasn’t intuitive. Dear God, he hoped she was right – let this meeting be just a link to further research, nothing more. "See, Tuppence," he said. "It’s all smoke and mirrors. Rubbish, right?"

Cassa Dreams put her hand on the mirror that lay on the table in front of her. "Oh, you’re right, Mr. Beresford." Then she smiled. "And you’re very wrong."

***

Wes shot a look behind him. The open office door and the window revealed the darkened corridor, but the intake specialist was nowhere to be seen. "Where did Pennith go?" he whispered to Zoe.

"No idea. And do you know why, um, Tommy changed his mind?"

"No idea," he repeated. "But he was always shockingly bad at following rules."

She leaned so close to him that her light floral perfume dominated the incense for a heartbeat. She was surprisingly curvaceous and warm under her sombre jacket, a fact he’d noticed when she’d kissed him hello and which he now was trying to ignore. Her mouth near his ear, she whispered, "Good for a section-leader to know."

"Come on, you two!" Anya called. "Unless you don’t want to participate in the ritual any more."

He gave his Rory laugh, modelled on one of his more annoying cousins on his mother’s side. "Be right there, Tuppence!"

As he and Zoe crossed into the Working Room, he took a quick survey of the concrete space. Along either wall was a table filled with magical paraphernalia: athames, the number of which suggested Cassa Dreams was either a poseur or had a dozen people working for her; scrying mirrors; smoldering incense-burners. All were jumbled into a pattern he couldn’t read. A wall of dark windows rose behind the medium – and he thought again of rain washing through layers of memory.

Giles said mildly, "You don’t have to if you don’t want to, old man. Load of bollocks, after all."

"If you do it, I will. Old man," he said, just as mildly. Ex-Watchers resurgent: the ironic phrase Giles had echoed so freely that afternoon meant more to him than he could bear to admit.

Cassa said, "Shall we begin? Ladies, if you’ll sit on either side of me, please." A light laugh: "I work better with feminine energies."

With her words, the doors slid shut behind them. Electronically controlled, he had no doubt – but dark glass in front and behind him gave him a sudden, hard chill.

Zoe and Anya were already taking their seats. Seeing Giles hold his partner’s chair for her, Wes remembered his manners and hastened to Zoe’s side to follow suit, saying, "Sorry, Troy dear." When she smiled up at him, he shivered again.

He didn’t know why it troubled him that his head didn’t hurt any more.

The medium snapped her fingers, then, with a merlin’s darting gaze, indicated the remaining chairs. "Gentlemen." As they settled, as the chairs scraped forward, she tapped on the mirror in front of her. Again she said, "Shall we begin?"

"Well, actually," Anya said, leaning her elbows on the table, "First I’d like to hear more about the terminal thing, as seen on your various slogans on your business cards – which are quite nicely printed, by the way. Designed locally?"

Cassa smiled. "I don’t handle the administrative work, my dear, but I’ll pass along your compliment. And as for the terminal –" she spread her fingers, thin and bony as birds-feet, on the mirror – "let us think of it this way. ‘Terminal’ is an adjective for ending, but as a noun, from the Latin, it is also –"

"Boundary," Wes and Giles said in unison, then looked at each other.

"Oh, listen to the gentlemen of learning!" Cassa said. "Yes, a boundary." On the word, she got up and began to pace a circle around the table. Best as Wes could tell, she followed the line between green light and darkness; her scarf rippled in and out of shadow as she moved. "It can be the end; it can be death. But how much more powerful to think of it as a place of departure and arrival. To think of it –" she was behind him now. A nail-tip grazed his neck, passed through air to Zoe’s nape –" as a point of connection."

Zoe sat up straighter at the touch. "Does this place of connection require papers, or passports?"

"Clever woman!" Cassa spun into her chair, then spread her hands again on the mirror. "It does require a word and a talisman to get in. But once there, you could go anywhere, talk to anyone. Call to anyone. That’s what the terminal is." Merlin-eyes back to Giles and Anya. "What is a keyword for your lost one?"

Anya’s hand went to Giles’s, and they linked fingers and gazes. After a long moment of that bizarre silent communication, the two said together, "Family."

It appeared that Anya blinked back tears – but she exhaled hard, smiled, and said brightly, "Yes, ‘family.’ Or failing that, ‘thumb-wrestling.’ Tara and I used to do that sometimes."

"Darling," Giles said, as if the ache in his endearment meant something specific.

"We’ll try ‘family,’ I think," Cassa said.

"Okay," Anya said. "So are you going with a spirit guide? One of the classics?"

"Oh, I don’t need anything like that." Breathing in, she said, "Yes. Family," and began to drum in an irregular rhythm, her nails clicking against the silver surface. Sounded like the rain hitting the windows, in patterns blown by the wind. Then she threw her hands out in a command he hadn’t expected. "Together, please."

With the merest hesitation Anya and Zoe reached out to clasp hands, making a trio of women in the light. Yet Cassa’s scarf still fluttered in and out of shadow.

Zoe turned to him, smiling in a way that reminded him not at all of Fred: "Now you, Rory." But he battled reluctance to take her hand; he almost feared to touch the rain and wind, to see again the image of his father’s study with those cracked, poisoned windows. Then at the edges of his sight, Giles reached out to Anya and held hard. Despite his fears, Wes matched the movement.

When Giles caught his other hand, Cassa inhaled and exhaled on a shiver. "Ah, now. Our circle is complete." Throwing her head back, she looked into the green light and cried, "The word is family, and we call on Tara."

Zoe’s fingers tightened on his. It was pleasant, nothing more.

But then another squeeze of their hands went around the table, from Cassa, from Anya to Giles, another from Zoe to him, from ex-Watcher to ex-Watcher, back to Zoe and Anya.

And the incense burned hotter he could feel the lash of the scarf there were sparks there were sparks – it was howling emptiness, no, it was everything, and Cassa said in a smoky voice not her own, "Sorry, people. The right word is ‘contract.’ And can I tell you how happy I am with this little meet-and-greet?"

He knew that voice. He could see himself holding a burning contract, a flame in a darkened room, a long scarf, half in shadow and half in light. A smile and that smoke-voice, edged with regret and love, oh God, saying _Flames wouldn’t be eternal if they actually consumed anything. But it means something that you tried_. Then, now, the voice said, "Maybe you can try again, huh, lover. I’ve been waiting for you." It came from the woman in the white tie.

The shadows ripped open with a thunderclap, the memories pouring over him like scalding rain – the baby, the false prophecies, the pain he deserved in his throat and his heart, Connor, his failure oh God his manifold failures, but there she was, his lover, the one he lost before he even knew –

The woman in the white scarf rose to her feet. But the tie should be red, he thought; Lilah wore red. Even as she held onto the others’ hands, a trio of women in the light, she said in Lilah’s voice, "And you two, I’d like to know a little more about the way you broke your contracts with hell." She was looking at Giles and Anya. "Eyghon, D’Hoffryn – yet you escaped. You got new starts. How the fuck did you do that?"

"What? We broke hell-contracts?" Anya said.

Behind them, the doors rattled under a blow, then another, then another. The edges of Wesley’s sight went green, and he breathed in something horrible.

Snapping, "Bloody hell. Come on," Giles let go of his hand. But the link to her remained. She was there in the fluttering shadows, and Wes wanted to touch her, say the things he could finally say –

"Now." Giles’s voice brooked no refusal.

Wes turned his head to see that each glass door had cracked like his father’s study windows. Green liquid stole through the cracks, turning to smoke that would take all of them under. Like his father.

"The contracts, kids. Did you know the password or something? Or find the right vessel like the followers of Xet want?" the woman in the white tie said again. Then she choked on her words, her hand dropping from Anya’s and going to her throat. "Lover?"

Giles was already trying the doors. When they wouldn’t open, he pulled a vial from his jacket; Wes knew it was the antidote that Grittnak had given them, there on the roof on the rain – the antidote that could have saved his father if he’d been there. Could have saved Lilah. He was never there when he needed to be.

Giles said over his shoulder, "Come on, do your sodding job!"

Right. His job. Memories and love never mattered. _Try to remember who you are_ , his father always said –

Hand diving into his pocket, Wes stumbled to the doors.

Someone outside – Pennith – was chanting low words he couldn’t distinguish. Inside, Giles followed one mark with the finger he had dipped in the liquid, tracing blue over green, murmuring their own incantation. "Return to the maker, let us stay awake, let us breathe, let us remember. Return to the maker –"

"Let us stay awake, let us breathe, let us remember," Wes repeated. Then he mirrored the action with his own vial and his own sign, his blue-tipped fingers covering what had been broken.

The muttering from outside grew louder. Just below the rune the glass rattled again. "It’s not going to be enough," he said, even as he finished his own counter-spell. "He’s going to try again."

"Then shoot out the glass," Giles said.

Behind him, Lilah’s voice said, "That’s right, Wesley. It’s time to indulge that gun fetish of yours." Then came a cry as if she were being pushed aside, came a cough and what sounded like the beginnings of a stammer.

Giles left him alone in front of the doors.

The pressure from outside strengthened, the door beginning to fracture with the first stroke, the chant getting louder. Wes shivered once, a hard chill he now recognised from that dark lost year, then reached for his weapon. Without faltering, he took off the safety. Aimed at the new cracks in the glass. Shot once.

Both doors shattered at the combination of bullet and counter-spell. But no one stood on the other side.

After he put the safety back on and holstered his gun, he turned back to the room. Giles and Anya were doing something he couldn’t see at one of the tables along the wall, murmuring something he couldn’t hear over the rain and the echo of gunshot. In the light, Cassa Dreams swayed back and forth, her lips moving soundlessly. She still held on to Zoe, who seemed transfixed by the movement and the fluttering scarf – two women in the light now.

Then Cassa Dreams slumped and said in a new voice, hesitant yet warm, "Hi. Hi, you guys." Beside her Zoe jolted, her free hand sliding across the table toward him. He felt the strongest pull, as if focus had shifted. If he could only see, he thought–

Giles and Anya turned, Anya crying, "Tara! Oh, Tara!"

Yet it was Zoe who caught Wes’s gaze. She seemed to be changing before his eyes, shimmering into a taller woman, her hair lengthening and darkening, her smile crooking that perfect face – Lilah’s face, Lilah’s voice. "Hey there, lover. Well, there’s always another way, isn’t there?"

He went toward her outstretched hand. "Lilah." Giles and Anya and the other voice faded into the background and the sound of the rain.

Lilah’s smile grew softer. "So what do you remember, Wes?"

"I remember everything," he said, falling to his knees beside her. Although he wanted desperately to touch her, his fresh memories kept him back.

"Do you recall breaking up with me?" she whispered, leaning forward. He could smell her perfume, that rich opiate which had intoxicated him so, frightened him so, and as he had done before, he forgot his misgivings. "Do you recall trying to rescue me?"

"Do shut up for a second," he said, and kissed her. The taste, dark and bittersweet like red wine and chocolate, was just as his tongue remembered. Even as the rain drummed harder, even as he sensed movement and murmurs all around him, he kissed harder, trying to make it last.

She stopped him for an instant. "Okay. Two things. You need to know that Angel was behind the forgetting spell. Because of Connor." Another kiss, richer, more bitter; another of her smiles. "You also need to know that I’d be fucking thrilled if you tried to rescue me again."

"Lilah," he said again. He kissed her as if he could take her breath and give her his, reaching in as far as he could – and then the taste and scent changed, becoming lighter, sweet and floral, and she jerked away. But it wasn’t Lilah, it was Zoe.

Oh God, it had been Zoe.

"I, I’m so sorry –" he began, falling back against his chair.

Giles lifted an athame’s blade from the mirror, where he’d scored something Wes couldn’t make out. "Now, darling," he said.

"Return to the maker. Come awake, breathe, remember," Anya said, and then whipped the scarf from around the medium’s neck. As she dropped the silk onto the floor: "Oh, that’s nasty. I haven’t felt bad magick like that since the sixteenth century, and John Dee didn’t really know what he was getting into there."

Now released, the woman shrank into her chair. Sparks seemed to die around her throat, and the light over the table flashed. Opening her eyes – which were no longer green – she said in an American drawl quite unlike the medium’s tones, "Hey. Hey – do I know y’all?"

"Ms. Dreams?" Giles said. "Cassa Dreams?"

" _Cassa Dreams_? What kind of fool name is that? You’d get kicked out of any self-respecting group of practitioners on account of bad taste," the woman said, pushing herself up. "My name’s Sandy Drake." She looked around, eyes widening. "Shit! Where am I, who are you, and why are you English? And why am I in this get-up? Am I trapped in some goddamn production of _Blithe Spirit_?"

Giles said, "Er, perhaps, in a manner of speaking. Could you please come with me, Ms. Drake?"

As he led the complaining woman through the shattered doors, Anya crossed to Zoe. She put her hands on her shoulders and said, "You okay, Zoe? That was some nasty multi-level channelling going on, which I wasn’t sure we were going to be able to break – especially with the athame not set to his hand and Rupert drawing the sign, because he’s just crap at it. But don’t tell him I said that again."

"I won’t tell him. And, um, I’m fine. I need to call Danny – ‘Fox’, I mean. Our backup. The signal must have gone dead," Zoe said faintly. She didn’t look at Wes.

Unfortunately, Anya did. "You okay too, Wesley?" Her brown eyes saw entirely too much; he closed his own, covered his face with his hands. In the way that reminded him so of another hardheaded woman, she said, "Seriously, answer me. You still have your headache? Any pain?"

"No, Anya," he said, without indicating which question he answered.

 _Try to remember who you are_. What a fucking joke.

***

One of the overhead lights in their kitchen had burned out, Anya saw. She’d have to fix it in the morning – but she turned all of them off for now. Then she just stood, breathing in smoke-wisps from the tabletop candles she’d lit, and playing with the borrowed ring, loose but still on her finger.

Rupert had kicked off his shoes and gone upstairs as soon as they’d gotten home, muttering about debriefing, and Harry, and spy stuff she was tired of thinking about. God, she was so tired, and she couldn’t figure out why, besides that it was almost one in the morning.

So she sat down on the floor. Although the leather trousers cut into her painfully, they didn’t hurt as much as her feet did. Though she found it hard to reach, to get into the right position –

"Here, darling, I can do that for you." Rupert stood in the doorway, holding the bottle of Scotch they’d left upstairs in one hand and the dirty tumblers in the other. Before she could say anything, he slid tumblers and bottle onto the kitchen counter, then sat down on the floor too. "Foot, please."

She leaned back on her hands and propped one boot on his thigh. "Thanks. But did getting all the way down hurt you, honey?"

"It’s not sitting down that’s the problem, it’s the bloody getting up," he said. His competent fingers pushed up the leather, caressing her as they passed, and then began to work on the boot-zipper.

At his care of her, those stupid tears threatened again. But she said with an attempt at a smile, "Is that a sexual reference? I hope not."

He looked at her over the tops of his glasses in an arrogant Rupert fashion before sliding off the first boot and sock. Oh damn, her toes were cramping; she kneaded them against his jeans, against solid thigh muscle and warmth. He heaved the boot into the hall, where it landed very near his own shoes, then said, "Other foot now."

Awkwardly she shifted position. His long fingers on her skin as he unzipped her boots, the release of pressure when he stripped off her covering – it reminded her of their first night together. Dropping onto her elbows, she let her head fall back so the tears could seep inside. The force of gravity was her friend.

When his fingers probed at just the right knot in her instep, she moaned, "Oh God, honey."

"Too hard? Tell me if it is." But he dug his thumb in, pressing on the centre so that the tension puddled away. Then he moved up to the base of her big toe, digging in again – more ache, more release. "While I do love the way you look in those heels, darling, you seem to be in a bit of pain now."

"You have no idea." When she spread her fingers flat on the floor, his borrowed ring clicked against the wood.

There was only the hum of the refrigerator, the lingering rain on the window, their soft breathing. There was the flickering light, the touch of his hands which alternated pain with pleasure, the flex of her other bare foot against his leg. She let herself sink into it all.

Then, still massaging, he said, "Harry thinks, as I do, that our cover as Tommy and Tuppence is blown. It probably was before we arrived at that bloody place. And Pennith is still out there. He’s likely the connection to Yeangelt – as is also one of our informants, unfortunately, because I rather think we were set up."

Focussing on what meant most to her at the moment: "We can’t be Tommy and Tuppence any more?" She made herself breathe through the ache.

"Not on ops. Er, still good for our communications with Zoe, I think." Enveloping her foot in his hand, he folded her toes over and pressed; one last pain-shot, then warmth as the cramp eased. "But that doesn’t matter."

"I think names matter," she said. "And I don’t want to talk about work now."

"Ah. The candles are lit, how stupid of me not to notice," he said dryly. "Do you need your other foot done?"

"No, thank you, honey." Then she raised her head to look at him. Still cradling her feet on his lap, he gazed into space, a hundred-years stare that spoke of tiredness and his ever-present and quite idiotic doubts. She knew what he needed. "How ‘bout a little drink?"

Smiling, he said, "No, thank you, darling."

"See, that’s a mistake." She got to her knees. With one quick series of moves she whipped off his glasses, put them on the counter, then collected the bottle of Scotch. "Scoot back for me, okay?"

Eyebrows raised, he nevertheless did as he was told, moving back to lean against a cabinet door. She settled herself beside him the best she could – no use losing an internal organ to overly tight pants. Then she wrapped her lips around the bottle and took a shot. It went down hot and fast, and she couldn’t repress a little cough before saying, "Now you."

"Don’t bloody tell me what to do, Anya." But he took the bottle anyway, took a long, long drink. He of course didn’t cough, as he was more accustomed to swallowing fire.

"Okay. Rupert honey, would you please kiss me now?"

"Much better," he said, then leaned in. His lips, still slick with the drink, slid over hers so easily, so sweetly. She did prefer her Scotch on his tongue, she really did. She brought one hand to curl around his arm, to hold on tight, to sink in.

Too soon he pulled away, then leaned his head back against the cabinet. Snuggling against his shoulder, she grabbed the bottle from him for one more sip. After another slight cough, she said, "I’m glad the spy part of the evening’s over. I do think we should have taken Wesley home, though, despite his no longer enspelled but still insane protests."

"Um-hm," he said, taking the bottle back. His own longer drink, then: "I suppose I could have knocked him out, slung him over my shoulder to get him to the car, then dumped his unconscious body in the back seat. That might have done it."

"No, he’s skinny but still too heavy, you might have thrown out your back – Oh. Amusing. If you’re not careful, Mr. Sarcasm, I’ll take vengeance on you." When her word echoed back unpleasantly in her brain, however, she shivered.

"For fuck’s sake, as if torturing me all evening with your beauty in leather wasn’t enough." After he placed the bottle back on the counter, he collected one of her hands and settled it on his upper thigh.

Even in the candlelight, hurt still cut into his face; she lifted her free hand to trace a line down his cheek. "It was upsetting to hear Tara like that, even through a medium," she said. Tara was the only true Scooby who had liked her back then, she thought but did not add; she was learning what not to speak aloud. "I’ve missed her."

"Yes." With just one word, she could hear all his guilt crushing down.

"Okay, Rupert, here’s my guess at what you’re thinking. If you’d been in Sunnydale, Tara wouldn’t have been murdered. Because of course your mere presence would be like a force-field through which evil bot-making villains’ bullets cannot pass."

"Anya, stop."

"But that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?"

"Anya –" He moved too fast; she wasn’t prepared for his mouth on hers, for love and sadness and the lingering burn of Scotch. His arm came around her, bringing her awkwardly into his body. With a muttered "Please stop," he kissed her again, kissed her deeper: lips and tongue, love and sadness. Then he rested his forehead on hers; she could see him clearly, even in the candlelight, even that close. "Never mind. Are _you_ all right, dearest? You were trying not to cry earlier."

That particular name always got to her. Before she could stop herself, she said, "Yes. Because my trousers hurt. Because it’s harder to be a spy than I expected. And because of the hell-contracts comment made by the creepy gate-crashing spirit."

His hand slipped down to her waistband, testing the fit. "Christ, Anya, you’re practically cut in half." He unsnapped the trousers, slid the zipper down – more sweet relief, she could breathe freely again – then caressed the marks on her skin as if he could love them away. When his fingers dipped down lower, brushing just the top of her most sensitive spot, she locked her hand on his forearm. A kiss half-comfort, half-sex, before he whispered, "I’m sorry my fucking past means you’re a spy now. If I could get you out of it –"

"Shut up. You’re Tommy, I’m Tuppence, we’re a team. That’s not what I meant."

A half-smile. "Tell me, dearest."

She almost couldn’t get the words out: "Just so you know, your calling me ‘dearest’ is really stupid, because it always makes me want to sob." She took a shuddering breath. "Lilah or whoever that was said that we had new starts, that we escaped hell. You did, I know you did, because you’re such a good man. But me? I can’t think that’s right. In my experience, true vengeance finds a person wherever, whenever."

"Anya, I haven’t been a good–" He broke off his words. "No. I don’t think we’ll ever get past who we were. But maybe...maybe because we’ve made different choices now, we can start again. Make it better, without forgetting the past."

"Do you believe that, _really_?"

"I will if you will," he said. "Now, darling–"

He eased her down on the floor, then eased off her constricting clothing. The leather came off with surprising ease, her marked skin warming under his touch. Oh God, his big hands, still with traces of magic on his fingertips: they traced patterns on her breasts, on the insides of her thighs, inside her. She felt heavy with pleasure, with relief. This kind of drawing he did better than anyone ever.

But she needed more of him. Murmuring suggestions because he didn’t like commands, she took off his shirt, helped him take off his jeans and boxers and toss them aside. Taking his cock in her hand, she played with it, circling the silky head, stroking his hard length until he moaned.

She needed all of him so much.

He smiled as he covered her – carefully, because of the technical difficulties with remaining bandages -- but close, so close. And he whispered, "You are my dearest, you know. Simple statement of fact."

Names did matter, she thought, as she opened to take him, as he sank into her. Cool floorboards against her back; warm, heavy Rupert inside and everywhere, everywhere, weighing her down with love. The force of gravity was her friend.

As they moved together, her borrowed ring clicked against the wood.

***

It’d stopped raining some time ago, but Wesley was still drenched, still cold. After dragging his hand through his hair, he reached into the secret hiding place for the key to his parents’ front door.

After – after the experience he still couldn’t name – he’d barely fought off both the MI5 people’s attempts to debrief, and Giles and Anya’s far more dangerous attempts to take care of him. He’d escaped at last into the rain, however, and he started walking. He didn’t know where he was going or where he went. He just walked. There was the river, there was late-night traffic, there were people running from the last sparks of lightning in the air, there were demons hiding in doorways.

There were his memories again.

He’d walked for over an hour until, somewhere on the Strand, he’d flagged down a cab and given the address of the hospital. When they’d pulled into the forecourt, however, he changed his mind. He wanted to go home.

If he could just figure out where that was, he’d be set.

The door opened silently, and he stepped inside onto the mat, shook himself off. Then he shut the door and locked it tightly as he’d been taught. His hands were in shadow as he worked; the lamps in the entry had been left on for some reason.

"Wesley," his mother said from behind him.

When he turned, she was sitting on the lowest step of the staircase, a shawl wrapped around her. The elegant, proper Elinor Wyndam-Pryce was sitting on the stairs, his mind repeated. That must mean –

"Roger died this evening, Wesley. About ten-thirty. He didn’t suffer, the doctors said."

"Mother. Oh, Mother. I’m sorry–" He fumbled for his mobile phone, then looked at the display. There were no messages. "Why didn’t you call me?"

"I’ve told you now." Clearly that was all she thought was required. "I’ve already begun the plans for the burial, but you can assist me tomorrow if you like."

"Of course," he said helplessly. He took a few more steps forward, then stopped.

She rose to her feet, clutching at her shawl. When her hands moved on the silk, he noticed the strangest detail – she’d already taken off her wedding ring. Then, as he stood there awkwardly, she came to him and kissed him on the cheek. It was the first time she’d done so since... he couldn’t remember, actually, which seemed a little ironic given the events of the evening. One hand came up to cradle his face, and she gazed at him for a long moment. Then she kissed him again. "Good night, son."

"Mother." Leaning forward, he gave her a tentative hug, the first he’d ever attempted as an adult. It shocked him to realise how small she was, how brittle. It shocked him more that she accepted the hug, if only for a heartbeat.

"You’re soaked through, Wesley. Better change out of those wet things," she said, already moving away toward the staircase.

In the silence he watched her climb, her ringless hand gliding on the bannister. When she was halfway up, he found his voice again: "Mother, why did you call him ‘Roger,’ and not my father?"

She didn’t answer, although he waited until after he’d heard her bedroom door shut.

He looked around the entryway he’d seen a thousand times: the lamps and the flower containers on the eighteenth-century table, the black-and-white stone of the floor, the subdued taste of the wall coverings. He could have named every item in it and its surrounding rooms. He could have repeated the substance of every conversation he’d ever had with the late Roger Wyndam-Pryce. He had always prided himself on his memory.

"I’ll remember who I am now, Dad. Don’t you worry about that," he said into the night.

Then he took himself to bed, to dream of red wine and chocolate and a woman’s smoky voice.

***

Zoe hated funerals. Despite the sun shining hot and bright on the Oxfordshire country churchyard, this service for Roger Wyndam-Pryce was no exception.

She stood a bit apart from the crowd paying their last respects to a man who’d been influential in so many areas of British life, although few in the public would have been able actually to name his achievements. She knew more about those now, she thought: a Council of Watchers chief, an MI6 agent, a husband and father. He had been a man who knew about night demons and bad dreams, a man who every piece of evidence suggested had been killed by one – although demon or dream, it was unclear. Her special section was working on the problem.

A gust of cool wind blew around a tombstone; surreptitiously she pulled her hair off her neck, so she could enjoy the breeze, and took a routine survey of the people in the crowd. Harry was here, talking to someone high up in the Home Office. Several MI6 people she’d just met was here too, following Jools Siviter like posh little ducklings. The MI6 spymaster, impeccable in black Savile Row suiting, had spent most of the service at the widow’s side, offering comfort. The man had at least waited to light up one of his cigarettes until after "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Not that the widow seemed in need of comfort; Elinor Wyndam-Pryce had been composed throughout the service, all intimidating brunette perfection and county poise. She did seem very young to have a son well into his adulthood, Zoe thought. The woman didn’t look much older than fifty.

The adult son in question had been collected by Giles and Anya down by the grave – no, wait, all three of them were coming this way. Zoe fought down a blush, the curse of the fair-skinned, and smiled at their approach.

Anya was saying in her usual sharp way, "Seriously, Wes, you don’t have to hurry back to Los Angeles. You can stay and help us with the Pennith case! I’ll even –" she took a deep breath, as if the following words would be painful –"even let you and Rupert go off adventuring on your own, and I won’t complain in your hearing."

"How perfectly measured a statement," Giles said dryly, at which she flashed a grin.

Wes said, "Yes, well played, Anya. But I need to go. I have your greetings to give to Spike, after all. Not to mention research that requires the Wolfram and Hart holdings, and certain things to discuss with Angel." The men exchanged significant glances at that. Zoe didn’t remember much of what had gone on after the spirit had leapt into her body, a memory-loss for which she was thankful, but she did hazily recall the intensity of the spirit’s hatred for the vampire Angel.

"Well, whatever," Anya said dubiously. She tossed her hair back. "You know, this has been a very nice service, even without the customary baked meats, funeral pyre, or sacrificed small animal."

"My mother would be pleased to hear it, thank you," Wes said. Casting a side-long glance at Zoe, he seemed ready to speak, thought better of it –

Anya said, "Yes, anyway, before we go, we have a funeral gift, Wes."

"A funeral gift?"

Giles reached into his suit pocket to pull out a slim envelope. "Er, yes. Giles and Jenkins’s bill."

Wes gave a choked laugh. "Oh, really –"

"Just read it." He proffered the envelope, raised his eyebrows. In a casually commanding voice, he said, "Now."

"Well, if you insist." Wes ripped into the envelope, pulled out a slip of paper, and stared at it for a moment. "But, Giles, this says –"

"That’s right. No charge for our work, but with one condition: our gift of twenty-five free billable hours, in exchange for your promise to come back and see us soon," Anya said. "And it wasn’t just Rupert’s idea, by the way. I don’t mind that you’re a little crazy."

Zoe thought that Wes seemed distressed for the first time that long afternoon, the paper crumpling in his fingers. "I can’t accept –"

"Yes, you can," Giles said. "Ex-Watchers resurgent, isn’t that right."

Composing himself, Wes smiled. "Yes. Thank you, Giles. No, thank you both. And I do promise."

"Great!" Anya said cheerily. Then, glancing behind her, her face fell. "Oh no, can we hide–"

"Ah, there you are, Wesley!" A curl of expensive smoke wafting ahead, Jools Siviter approached. Zoe had to fight an impulse to stand behind Giles, an impulse Anya not only shared but acted upon. "Your mother tells me that you’re leaving from here? Not going back to the house?"

"Er, that’s right." Wesley stood straighter. "But thank you for taking such care of my mother today, Mr. Siviter."

"Known the woman for years, grew up with her, only good manners." He blew out smoke in a straight, sharp line. "You understand those, I hope."

Wes inclined his head, but didn’t say anything.

"Right. So, Giles, Harry tells me that you and your partner, plus our little, er, sister here– " Siviter glanced at, then dismissed, Zoe–"have made progress on our small problem with Yeangelt."

"Yes, quite." Giles sent Zoe a look of apology, but she understood; they were dealing with a sexist bastard, and allowances had to be made. "I’m sure Zoe will keep you and Harry informed of our findings."

"Yes, yes," he said, bored, before looking once more at Wesley. "Your, er, father’s left your name down at the club, Wes, and of course there’s an opening in the rolls now. I look forward to your joining me for a drink someday."

"I, I –"

"Don’t stammer, boy, it’s hardly the mark of a Traditionalist," Siviter said. Taking another drag on his cigarette, he waved a casual hand as he moved away. "Good day to all, and safe journeys," he threw over his shoulder, the words dying on the breeze.

"Christ Jesus, what an arse," Giles said when the man was gone. Then he clapped Wes on the shoulder. "Wesley, Anya and I have to get back to town, and Zoe’s with us – but didn’t you have to say something to her first? In, er, private?"

Zoe stirred herself. "Oh, no, there’s no need–"

"It won’t hurt a bit!" Anya assured her. "And we’ll be over by the car when you’re done." Then she hurled herself at Wesley, who clearly wasn’t braced for Hurricane Anya. As she hugged him, she said, "Remember! You’ve promised to come back."

He smiled. "I will, Anya. I certainly will."

The two left her with Wes, there in the now conveniently deserted corner of the churchyard. Cool wind blew between them as a cloud passed over the sun. He put his hands in his pockets, briefly looked away, then looked back at her. "Thank you for coming, Zoe. Or, er, ‘Troy.’" He smiled.

"Not a problem, ‘Rory.’"

"Yes. Well...Giles tells me that you might have missed an important part of Sandy Drake’s debriefing, and I wanted to pass along the information. You remember that Tara’s spirit said several crucial things –"

"Yes, I read the transcripts, even though I didn’t conduct the investigation." Couldn’t bear to look at the woman, didn’t want to remember the loss of self that night.

"Hmm. Then you probably recall Tara’s statement, ‘Tell her that her lost one isn’t really lost; tell her that he’s just wandering.’ And the follow-up, ‘Tell her she should have trusted him. He was telling the truth.’" When she raised her eyebrows, he said, "We had thought Tara was speaking to Ms. Drake, but she says not. And it wasn’t Anya, since Tara spoke to her directly. So, well – have you lost anyone recently?"

Lost anyone....Tom. Her section-chief and friend Tom Quinn, standing there in the farmhouse with everyone against him, asking them to believe – "Oh. Oh, my God."

"Ah, yes. That’s what we thought. And I chose to be the one to tell you, because... because you and I were touched by spirits that night." When she gazed at him, he looked away for a moment. Then, in a swift, awkward move, he kissed her. It wasn’t anything like what she half-remembered from that night – no passion, no pain, no violence. It was merely a sweet press of the lips: warmth and a hint of stubble, a point of connection.

When she murmured something, she didn’t know what, he lifted his head. His smile was just as swift, just as awkward as the kiss. "I’m sorry. I just – I just wanted to do that once when you were, um, you."

Without another word he turned and walked away.

Anya was right, Zoe thought numbly. It hadn’t hurt a bit.

***

"Oh God Anya, darling, love you, oh God –" Giles’s hand, scraping for purchase, scattered the files he’d been reading when she had pounced on him a few moments ago.

He grabbed onto the far edge of the desk, the other hand balanced at her working jaw. The afternoon sun hurt his eyes, the edge of the study desk cut into his lower back, and oh God oh God, Anya’s mouth on him, tongue swirling around, teasing, her hands sliding to take what her mouth couldn’t. The friction, the perfect pressure, too much, not enough – "I love you I love you, Anya, Anya –"

When the desk chair in front of him rolled closer, Anya took more of him in, began a steady suction. The world darkened, although he might have closed his eyes, he didn’t know. He knew only the pressure of her mouth and her hands, the tightening of his body everywhere. He moaned, "Darling, darling, God, God, Anya, sweet Jesus fuck I can’t –"

Then she took him deeper still for one second, swallowed around him, and it was too much. He let go, shuddered into her mouth – perfect pleasure, perfect release.

He collapsed on his back on the desktop, his head striking hard against the wood. Sweet Jesus. He barely registered her getting his handkerchief out of his pocket, a quick swipe of cotton over his sensitized cock and then a flutter of white somewhere above him. Sod it, he barely registered the act of breathing.

When he could focus, he saw her bending over him, smiling as she inspected him. With a creak from her leather trousers she clambered up on the desk beside him, then brushed his hair off his forehead. "Honey? Did you pass out? Because I was shooting for unconsciousness – Ow. That hurts."

"Poor you. Here, darling." Although it took an enormous effort, he lifted one hand to her jaw and started to massage her sore muscles. He thought it was a good sign that he could feel his fingers again, actually.

"Mmm." She stretched into his touch, letting him ease her. They stayed linked for a minute or two, the late-summer breeze stealing in by the open window to cool them off, before she said, "No, really, did you pass out?"

"I think I died. Am I in heaven? I bloody well must be."

She beamed. "There we go! See, honey, I told you I’d repay you with interest for my own spectacular orgasm-induced blackout last week, just when you least expected it. And an hour after lunch on a Saturday wasn’t when you were expecting it, was it?"

"Absolutely unexpected." He blinked at her. "Come closer, please."

When she hovered over his mouth, he forced himself to lift the few inches to kiss her. He could still taste himself on her. Collapsing again, he said, "Anya, I love you."

"Yes, Rupert, I got that, as you repeated it approximately fifty times in between all the ‘darlings’ and ‘oh God oh Gods.’" She slid down, propping herself on an elbow and putting her other hand on his stomach. "It’s interesting, though. When we have intercourse, you’re practically silent except for delicious and appropriate sex-noises, but give you a blow job and you just don’t shut up."

"Fascinating," he said, fighting a need to yawn. "Do you want me to talk more when I’m inside you?"

"Oh, not at all. Why mess with excellence?" After giving him a smacking kiss on the cheek, she patted him. "Are you ready to sit up?"

"It’s possible I’m never sitting up again. Just throw a dust sheet over me and make me part of the furniture."

"Good God, you’re ridiculous." She kissed him again, then grabbed his hands, interlacing their fingers. "Come on, honey. Up you go."

He stumbled when his feet hit the ground, largely due to the jeans tangled around his knees, but he managed to right himself and put himself back together. She stood watching him appraisingly until she was satisfied he could stand, then she straightened his shirt. "Okay. I’m going to go work with my herbs for a while, if you –"

Using his last bit of energy, he swept her into his arms. "Thank you, dearest," he said, before kissing her. He made it last for a good long time. Then: "It’s like the arms race, you know. Now I’ll have to plot to top that experience – give you pleasure that, er...well, I haven’t figured it out yet, but darling, I will."

Smiling, she rubbed her thumb across his mouth. "Always a pleasure doing business with you, my honey."

She made a point of swinging that pert leather-covered arse as she left the room.

After a minute of deep breathing and meditation, he bent to pick up the scattered files: information on the Yeangelt/Pennith investigations (Anya was researching the vessel Lilah had mentioned, while he worked on The Terminal and the Xet prophecy proper); their newest client’s letter, asking for title search on a possibly haunted site; printed emails from Wes and, rather unbelievably, Spike; a quick, cryptic email from a recovering Willow; Dawn’s faxed notes on her regrettable lack of success with the sigil.

There actually hadn’t been anything from Cleveland for two days, he thought with a frown. And nothing from Buffy for a week. He didn’t know if – Spike didn’t say –

The insistent ring of the doorbell broke his thoughts. Anya was moving around downstairs; she could answer it, he thought, especially since his legs didn’t seem quite trustworthy yet. He shuffled through the files again, looking at the names, thinking about the order of business and who should get an e-mail first.

Then his darling bellowed, "Rupert! Rupert, come here right the hell now!"

He made it down the stairs in record time. Anya held onto the open door as if she were going to smash it into someone’s face. He said, "Darling, what the bloody–"

"Just take a look." Anya opened the door a little wider, and the young woman standing on the threshold smiled.

"Dawn!" he said.

"Yep, that’s me. Hi, Giles." She cleared her throat. "I guess no one told you, huh. Well, it was supposed to be kind of a surprise. Anyway, Cleveland’s not really working out for us – Buffy’s travelling a lot – and after I talked about it to her, and did a deal with Robson and Wood, got a Watchers Council scholarship and stuff – anyway, here I am. We’re moving in!"

"Well, er, right! We need to talk about this more, ascertain... but you’re certainly welcome, Dawn," he said, ignoring the elbow Anya threw in his ribs. Then he realised: "Um, you said _we_?"

"Yeah, honey, maybe you spoke too soon," Anya said. "Take another look."

Behind Dawn, he saw a black cab regurgitating bag after bag from its depths. A gangling young man stood next to the cabbie, supervising the dispersal, but as if at some signal, he turned and waved. "Hello, Giles! Yes, it’s us!"

"Andrew," Giles said faintly. He fumbled for his handkerchief, but of course it wasn’t there, Anya had it – bloody fucking hell. In a move he hadn’t made since the fall of Sunnydale, he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Which never helped, of course.

Anya slipped her arm around his waist. "Yes, that’s exactly what I thought, Rupert. Here, I’ll even say it for you...." And she took a deep breath before snapping out, "Oh for fuck’s sake!"

[To be continued in the next story, "The Fashion in Shrouds"]


End file.
